Unto Their Own
by CRMediaGal
Summary: The Light has fallen, Darkness abounds, and Hermione Granger is struggling to survive in a far more sinister Wizarding world. When she is sentenced into Snape's charge, Hermione begins to wonder if everything is truly as it seems. For better or worse, their worlds are about to collide, perhaps even unite them against a common enemy. AU, Post-Hogwarts, Rated M.
1. Escaping the Past

**A/N: ****Hello, everyone! I'm back with a brandspankin' new SSHG tale, and this one's a departure from what I normally write. I've taken myself out of my comfort zone for this, and, thus, it's been quite a long, painstaking process to write (and will likely continue to be in the months ahead.)**

**Warning: This is a "dark fic," so M-rated material abounds (i.e. violence, smut, etc.). _Ye be warned. _I will, of course, provide specific chapter warnings whenever I think it's necessary. **

**Important Note About Updates: I will likely not be sticking to my usual posting-multiple-times-per-week schedule. However, any readers already familiar with my work will know that I NEVER abandon WIPs, so, even if it takes me longer than usual to update, rest assured that updates _will_ come. **

**Please let me know your thoughts as you read! I'd love to hear from you! Without your thoughts, it isn't worth sharing.**

_**Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Brittny! Of course, I'm prone to changing, adding and switching things around after getting betaed chapters back from her, so any remaining errors are mine and will get corrected as time permits. Accompanying artwork to this story should be credited to the talented Maria.**_

**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.  
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_**Unto Their Own**_

**By CRMediaGal**

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_**"He came unto his own, and his own received him not."**_  
**- John 1:11**

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**Chapter 1: Escaping the Past**

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Hermione attempted to disappear into her book for the good part of an hour but kept finding her eyes darting around her purposely dimly lit room, her mind too on edge to get engrossed in her reading material. It certainly didn't echo how she used to get lost in the pages of a book, swept away by the enticing storyline and characters.

_'Used to'... More like 'in another life time...'_

Hermione's tethered nerves were hardly a surprise. She had been on the run for nearly a year—nine months and seventeen days, to be exact—and, at times like these, when night had fallen and the world had gone dark and eerily quiet, her highly-charged anxieties came out to play.

And yet, her heightened senses were what had kept her alive this long, so it all seemed highly appropriate: to be awake at three in the morning, to have gotten very little sleep, to toss and turn in the night and moan like a wounded animal for a past long gone. Being isolated and alone during the past nine and a half months, without any communication from the outside world—or the place she had once called home—hadn't eased her restless nights, but at least, as she so often reminded herself, she was still sane.

_For the moment._

Hermione often wondered when she would go mad. It was only a matter of time, surely? That was the normal transition of things; the mind would eventually grow too fragile and delicate being cut off from any human interaction, to the point that it would finally snap and succumb to insanity. It was always the unfortunates, as Hermione came to understand them, the ones haunted by the past who cracked. In her case, she had become one of the hunted, thereby forced to be on her guard night and day without much rest or proper nourishment to keep a clear head.

The deterioration of the mind was developing into an obsession of Hermione's in recent months. Perhaps it was the paranoia of going mad that kept her engaged in independent research, or forced her to get swept up in a Muggle mystery novel to give her mind a break. Such novels normally centered around a combative female being chased to the ends of the earth by assassins, though the heroine always managed to outsmart her enemies in the end.

_Why do you even read these wretched stories?_ Hermione privately chided herself, her jaw clenched and her shoulders tense. _They only make your anxieties worse, you know..._

Hermione already understood why, though: she turned to such finger-biting storylines to remind herself of her own predicament, finding unusual comfort in the main female characters' dire situations, as they so often resembled the bright witch's own miserable plight. She felt less alone when cooped up with what she had deemed "Hermione's heroines"—strong, capable women who, by way of mere words, could inspire her not to give in to what in all likelihood was to be her fate, to not turn herself into Ministry officials or yield to the darker forces that had conquered her world not even a full year ago, taking some of her closest friends with them, both into darkness but also unto death.

Hermione shuddered at the flash of faces that danced before her eyes. She tried not to think on them whenever possible. She tried her damnedest not to reflect on those early, terribly wrought days following the Fall of the Light. The night Lord Voldemort snatched the Wizarding world into his grasp to rule with an iron fist was the night Hermione's entire life had changed. It altered drastically for all who hadn't fought for the Darkness.

_Ironic that you should end up here, all the same_, came a late night pondering that made Hermione snort into the otherwise silent room.

Truth be told, Hermione missed England terribly. More than that, she missed the Wizarding world that she felt such a kinship to, much more than the Muggle world in which she had grown up. Even now that circumstances had changed and her kind were no longer tolerated, nothing more than slaves with numbers and no names or fraction of a life to call their own, she _still_ felt a deeply-embedded attachment to the magical world that had both given and taken away her freedom simultaneously. Her Hogwarts letter, received at the tender age of eleven, had been a carefully crafted message of acceptance; her seventh year had stolen that acceptance away like a thief in the night, replacing it with a number and a status lower than the Muggle class from which she had been born.

_Once they catch you, that is..._

Although she no longer held any connections to the Muggle world—her parents were dead and she certainly wasn't getting chummy with anyone else since rejoining her former lifestyle—it was exactly the Muggle world that, for the moment, offered Hermione refuge. For how long, however, remained uncertain. She couldn't afford to speak to anyone, which was how books had, once again, become her only source of connection. She was too much of a liability as it was, and there remained the fearful possibility that whomever she came in contact with might wind up dead, all in the pursuit of her. Hermione couldn't take such a risk, allowing some kind stranger to be tortured or killed on her behalf, and the guilt of bringing anyone else harm by mere association was enough to keep a safe distance.

Everywhere the witch went, human contact seemed to threaten her repeated attempts at a solitary existence. There had been that good-looking chap at that small, tucked away cafe in the heart of Paris, that sweet-tempered, pleasant-sounding Muggle girl, only a year or two younger than Hermione, who had struck up a conversation with her on a train ride to Munich, and then, of course, the strapping neighbor down the hall from Hermione's current residence who routinely offered a "hello" every morning when their paths crossed. Hermione would barely manage a smile in return—_Stay away!_ her mind warned each and every time—but the shaggy-haired, blue-eyed bloke still greeted her with warmth, to what end she couldn't account for, but Hermione was grateful for the small dose of friendliness his smile provided every morning.

The cards falling where they had, Hermione was, naturally, starving for some level of human interaction. It left her emotionally void and numb most days, though a dull ache still lingered somewhere in the middle of her chest, particularly at night when she felt most alone. She recalled in intimate detail the very last conversation she had had before turning her back on the Wizarding world, though it wasn't until she slept and delved deep into her regurgitating nightmares that she was able to relive it to its full glory...or heartache, rather. Only then could she recall that last exchange in its miserable entirety.

It was one of the many reasons Hermione had come to loathe sleep, and, thus, little wonder that she had turned into a steadfast insomniac. Sleeping meant dreaming, which perpetuated the nightmares, the night sweats, and the ever-pending cries of distress. She would then awaken, breathing rapidly and staring into the darkness at nothing but the unsettling shadows that surrounded her flat, dissolving into the corners of her room and leaving her empty and racked with despair.

Awake, Hermione didn't fare much better. Her entire body ached for sleep most days, and it took a considerable amount of coffee to keep her alert and on her guard. Even at her most exhausted, her mind had trouble switching off. And then, of course, there was the painful reality that she had no one to confide in, no one who noticed or cared for her well-being. She, alone, was all she had.

_Alone..._

It was odd for Hermione to not find solitude easier to stomach considering how much of her childhood had been spent entertaining herself. With the exception of her doting parents, Hermione had had very few friends before Harry and Ron. These days, she could only read so many books, disappear into so many other worlds, and only get so immersed into someone else's frame of mind before reality sunk in like a ton of bricks. Sometimes, Hermione was convinced that her loneliness mixed with her daily quietude would suffocate her.

_But you're stronger than this, Hermione_, her fighting conscience would penetrate through during these moments of panic and weakness. _This is your new life. And it beats where you could be right now, so bugger off!_

Aggravated with her latest book—or was it her latest bout of reflections?—Hermione tossed the paperback onto the empty side of her bed. She glanced over at the clock on her night table, realizing she had eyed it only some fifteen minutes before. Then her stomach growled, piercing the silence with a low grumble.

"Oh, right; haven't eaten," she spoke aloud, something she often did out of comfort and regularity.

Hermione reluctantly climbed out of the warmth of her bed but not before checking the drawer of her bedside table._ Yes, it's still there._ She breathed a sigh of relief at seeing her wand exactly where she always kept it: within arm's reach. Not that she would have any use for it, unless, of course,_ they_ came for her. She hadn't touched it in nearly nine months.

Stretching as she rose from the bed, Hermione let out a weary yawn and dragged her feet to a small, yellow-colored kitchenette off of the hallway that led from her bedroom. Her flat wasn't much to the decorative eye, and she refused to pay more than a month to month rent contract, seeing as she was never certain when she would have to uproot her life again, but the current state of this latest dwelling would do for the time being. It was small, uncluttered, and, most importantly, quiet, allowing Hermione to hear every noise and bother surrounding her, whether it be the elderly couple directly above that startled her nearly every morning with their shouting matches or the eager, young lass next door whose headboard repeatedly pounded against Hermione's paper-thin bedroom wall.

Of course, there were no sounds to be heard tonight other than the occasional revving of an engine or a dog barking. Hermione took in a slow breath as she trekked to the sole window in the kitchen, the only source of light on that side of the flat, to crack it open halfway, her ears soaking up the sounds of the night, of other insomniacs like her. In this part of town, known as the _Rossebuurt_ of Amsterdam, catcalls, a provocative whistle, or men tromping home from a "fun-filled" evening trickled up to her apartment. _Rossebuurt_ was not only her current hideaway, but, so far, it was also proving to be her longest stay.

Hermione absentmindedly turned away from the window, finding nothing outside on the abandoned street below to occupy her thoughts, to turn on the kettle. Black tea would do. She already knew she would be fortunate to get three or so hours of rest at this point. She sighed and focused her eyes on the kettle, waiting for the whistle to sound to tell her that the tea was done.

How long had she been here exactly? Hard to remember at three o'clock in the morning. She had only made her way back to Europe—reluctantly—after spending six months in North America, trudging cross country and never staying in one area for more than a few weeks at a time. Those first weeks spent outside of England were terrifying. Sadly, there was to be no sightseeing on her first trip across the pond, an excursion she had always imagined taking with her late parents. It was something the Grangers had often lively jabbered on about when Hermione was home on summer hols, and experiencing it without them had been a painful reminder.

Hermione could barely keep track of all the cities she had stayed in. What was the point, really? She was running away—_Always running away..._—and they wouldn't stop hunting her. Never. She had managed to outsmart the few she had encountered, but only just, and even Hermione wasn't conceited enough to chalk her escapes up to skill, but rather to strokes of luck. She was reminded in that moment of how she had managed to financially cross oceans, and a grim thought came to her that made her shoulders go rigid.

_Draco... I wonder how he's faring these days..._

The kettle screeched, prompting Hermione's mind back to the mundane task of setting her tea the way she liked. Her stomach moaned a second time, reminding her of what she had _really_ come into the kitchen for in the middle of the night. Rolling her eyes, Hermione opened the fridge in search of a late night snack. She had bought fresh fruit earlier that day and decided now was as good a time as any to peel an orange and be done with her nagging stomach's need for nourishment.

As her tired eyes closed in on her snack of choice, a soft meow greeted her bare feet. Hermione peered down to find the silhouette of a fluffy, white and black-spotted kitten pawing at her light pajama bottoms.

"Hi, Moo," she greeted softly, smiling down at the feline, who responded with another mewl that echoed of hunger. "In need of a snack, too?"

Hermione had discovered the kitten atop a series of trash bins outside of her apartment complex days before, scrounging for scraps under a pounding rain that would have surely drowned the poor thing if she hadn't come to its rescue. It was comforting having the kitten around for company. Hermione hadn't considered getting a cat again after the disappearance of her dear Crookshanks, and wouldn't have under such circumstances, only, catching sight of the fragile kitten on her way home reminded Hermione of her dear half-Keazle, whose whereabouts to this day remained unknown. In all likelihood, the cat was dead, but Hermione wasn't ready to concede to that agonizing probability just yet; or perhaps her already tenuous mind was shielding itself from the pain, from another death in her life, from another confirmation that she truly was all alone in the world.

"You hungry, Moo?" Hermione inquired, patting the kitten's head and scooping him up into her arms.

The kitten snuggled his whiskers against her cheek before catching sight of a few bouncy curls worth seizing. Hermione giggled as Moo pawed and gnawed on her unruly hair, taking what small comfort could be found in the feline's endearing antics. She picked up his bowl and filled it with milk, which she then heated in a microwave.

Not using magic for everyday practices was still difficult for the witch to master, even now, but she forced herself into living the Muggle lifestyle as much as possible. Using her magic could jeopardize everything, and the Dark Lord's minions were always watching, always on the lookout; to Hermione, it wasn't worth the ultimate price she might pay.

_If it's even still in you anymore..._

Heaving another sigh, and feeling her eyelids growing heavy, Hermione ensured that Moo was fed, sliced up an orange for herself, closed her window, and double checked that the bolts and locks around her flat were secure before calling it a night. With any luck, she might manage a good three or four hours of sleep, and enough energy to line up a job the following morning.

* * *

Hermione perused the jobs section of a Muggle newspaper as she sat in a corner of a cozy little café she often frequented just around the corner from her flat. Most of it was in Dutch, but she had managed to pick up on the language considerably since trekking to these parts. Not many tourists perused this particular café, especially when it was still daylight, considering its notorious location right in the heart of the Red Light District. Hermione preferred its darkened atmosphere, from its plum trimmings to the confined natural light by way of only two windows at the front. It was easy to overlook and go unseen, making it Hermione's blessed little haven in recent weeks.

After all, who would ever suspect the shrewd, yet innocent, Hermione Granger of living anywhere remotely near such a location? Then again, the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters, which had grown in number since the Fall of the Light, were cunning, not easily dissuaded, and would hunt her down anywhere, no matter the costs, so Hermione could never be too careful when venturing out into public.

Hermione gravitated to the dingy-looking café for another reason as well: the owner, an elderly gentleman with a bushy mustache and kind blue eyes. He knew all of his regulars, including Hermione, though she never offered any details up willingly about her life or why she kept frequenting his little establishment.

_No contacts, Hermione_, she would have to morbidly remind herself and merely crack a smile for him as she entered the place. _No connections. None whatsoever._

After ordering her "usual," Hermione set to the task in front of her. Her job prospects so far were proving dismal. She had been rung for one or two interviews, but neither had worked out in her favor. Hermione was almost comforted by the fact that, much like her old self, a familiar professional-like panic was starting to settle in.

Did she not meet qualifications in the Muggle world anymore? Was she a failure? Would she and Moo be left to feed on scraps until she was eventually evicted from her flat?

_Hermione, it's too early in the morning to go this mental. Save it for later._

Scanning the jobs sections some more, there wasn't much of anything that caught her eye, which led her mind to wandering again. She could research and find her way around a library with her eyes closed, but there was nothing of that sort available. Every so often, Hermione circled a position that seemed relatively doable but not without a disgruntled frown.

Was this all a farce and only prolonging the inevitable? _Don't think like that, Hermione! Things could change! Things could...get better._

True, she hadn't run into any Snatchers or those frightening, hooded officials from the overthrown Law Enforcement in nearly two months, the longest on record to her recollection. _That doesn't mean they still can't find you_, her paranoid conscience reminded her.

Hermione scowled and rolled her eyes. Perhaps that was true, but she was quickly running out of money, even with being as frugal with expenses as she had been. If she managed to stay in the area without having to pick up and move again, but didn't secure a long-term job soon, she and her new furry companion would be out on the streets in no time.

Hermione threw down her pen and newspaper, taking a break from her job hunting to study the few other customers scattered throughout the café. Two gentlemen sat by one of the windows, laughing and conversing close together with lit fags in their hands. Hermione could see the faintest trace of lipstick on the white collar of the man facing her direction and didn't need to guess where the two had recently wandered in from. It didn't take someone as clever as the prized Gryffindor to decode the look and behavior of frequent customers to _this_ part of town.

Hermione's curious eyes trickled away from the two gentlemen to an elderly woman with long, white hair seated alone at a nearby table, stirring her tea absentmindedly whilst staring into the cup with an unflattering scowl. Her makeup was too drastic and too dark, making her look rather Moulin Rouge-ish to the eyes. That was typical around here. Women of all ages wore too much make-up and left too little to the imagination.

Dressed in jeans, an oversized jacket that used to fit but now hung on her frailer form and no make-up, she probably looked a sight. Not that Hermione cared. She could never tame her hair the way she had been able to with a wand and, thus, kept it long and unruly over her shoulders.

Hermione couldn't help smirking over her own cup of coffee as she watched the old lady grumble and mutter under her breath, thinking she wasn't the study of anyone else's eye. Every so often, the grouchy woman glanced over at the two young men, who were getting rowdier by the minute, undoubtedly discussing last night's liaisons. The woman, growing ever more agitated, eventually threw down her cup, rattling the saucer loud enough to capture everyone's attention, and scooted her chair back with an obnoxious screech. With a couple more aggravated huffs, she left with her nose high in the air.

_What did she expect?_ Hermione tried not to snicker. _Where does she think she is?_

Hermione settled back into her chair when the gentleman facing her direction suddenly threw her an unexpected glance. The other soon followed, surveying Hermione cautiously over his shoulder whilst slowly blowing out the smoke he had inhaled from his fag. Hermione froze and swallowed what little was left of her coffee, nearly choking in an effort to compose herself. Eye contact with strangers was rare and always rattled her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and horribly exposed, especially when the gentlemen didn't turn away to continue their conversation but stared unreservedly at her for what seemed like ages.

Wrapping her heavy winter coat more securely around herself, Hermione decided quickly that she was done with her job search and hurried out of the café, not giving either of the curious men a second glance, though she could feel the weight of their gazes trailing after her as she exited.

Hermione had only gotten half way down the block when she stomped her foot. "Damn it, my newspaper!" she cursed and spun on her heel to hesitantly return to the café.

As Hermione strolled back inside to retrieve her newspaper, she found her empty coffee cup exactly where she had left it, only her pen and paper were missing. "What the..."

"Is this yours?" came a pretentious-sounding voice from behind.

Hermione startled and whipped her head around, only to find herself face to face with the unsettling gentleman who had locked eyes with her earlier._ So, he's English._ He was also rougher around the edges than she had initially perceived. Somewhere between his mid to late thirties, the man was clearly in need of a shave and reeked of whiskey, tobacco, and the lingering musk of a woman of the night's scent.

Hermione cringed and recoiled, narrowing her eyes challengingly, though the gentleman continued to hold her rolled up newspaper in one hand. "Yes, it is," she replied calmly and reached out to extract it from his grasp, but he suddenly moved it out of reach, causing Hermione's narrowed eyes to turn into slits. "That's mine, Sir. Please hand it over."

"Only if you'll have a cup of tea with me and my mate here," he offered, though his offer came across more like a demand than an option. "Unless you prefer coffee?"

"No, I don't think so."

Hermione attempted to reach for the newspaper a second time, but the man took a step back, his mouth cast into a frown of rejection. "_Oh?_ And why is that?"

"Because I'm in a hurry, Sir. _Please_ give me my newspaper—"

"No, have a sit-down with us and we'll consider it."

The other gentleman, still seated, at least had the decency to look mildly embarrassed by his friend's forwardness but said nothing to either of them. He merely turned in his chair and his eyes roamed over her figure without reply.

Frazzled and annoyed, Hermione dismissed the prat with a wave of her hand. "Oh, forget it, fine! Keep it for all I care!"

Hermione brushed past him with the intent to leave when she felt a sudden, severe yank on her arm that threw her back several feet. Without so much as a second to let out an involuntary gasp, Hermione's arm was abruptly twisted behind her back by the angry hustler she had refused. Her newspaper toppled to the floor and her mouth was cupped by one of his calloused hands to prevent her from crying out.

_NO! No, no, no!_

Shocked and unprepared, Hermione squirmed in a frantic attempt to get away, until she realized that the other man, who had been sitting quietly up until now, had risen to stand in front of her with the tip of a wand pointed directly at her face, his dark, sinister eyes glimmering in triumph. She didn't recognize his face, but it was evident that he and the man now cutting off her airway were one of _them._

_Shite._

"Miss Granger, isn't it?" the man with the wand hissed ever so softly, which all but twisted Hermione's stomach into knots. He waved his wand towards the front windows, and the shades were suddenly drawn, the Dutch 'Closed' sign magically turned over to shut out the outside world, and the place became immersed in darkness. Only a fraction of natural morning light seeped through the cracks in the shades.

"_Hey!_" came the booming voice of the café owner from behind the counter.

Hermione jolted. The friendly, elderly gentleman came bustling towards them, his arms flailing wildly. "Let that young lady go!" he commanded in a thick Dutch accent. "Who the devil do you think you are?" The Ministry official swished his wand in the old man's direction, and his eyes widened like saucers. "What is _that?_ Now look here, young ma—"

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Hermione wiggled violently as soon as she heard the Killing Curse on the tip of the evil wizard's tongue, but it was too late. A flash of green light erupted, momentarily filling up the café with its brilliance, and the owner went spiraling backward like a limp doll. His hefty body hit the countertop at an awkward angle, severing his spine in half with a nauseating _click_, and then he slunk to the floor, dead. His eyes were still open, though robbed of life, and didn't move again.

Hermione froze where she stood, her heart ready to leap straight out of her chest. Her panic-stricken eyes were glued to the lifeless body of the elderly Muggle who had risen to her defense and now lay in a lifeless heap on the floor, murdered before he could so much as finish his sentence.

It was another blow that Hermione could barely stomach to look upon: proof of how destructive and demonic her former world had become. She looked away with disgust and fear, her ragged breathing coming through in spurts.

The two wizards didn't pay the act, nor the dead Muggle, any further attention, their eyes instead focused intently on the young witch they had snatched with success. "Now then, Miss Granger," said the wizard who had cast the Unforgivable Curse, "you'll be coming with us, if you please."

His voice was sickly polite but the meaning behind his words alerted her to the horrors that lay in store, if she allowed them to take her willingly. Swallowing hard, Hermione fought to speak behind the large hand still clamped down on her mouth.

After watching her struggle for several agonizing seconds, the man lowered his wand a fraction and nodded towards the other wizard holding her hostage. As soon as the man's rough hand released its grip, Hermione fought for air, desperate to speak.

"How - How did you find me?"

"With difficulty, Miss Granger."

"Wait, _please!_"

"And why is that?" he baited through a malicious smile. "We've been looking for you for a long time."

"A _very_ long time, love," whispered the wizard at her back, sending a shiver down her spine.

"But I—"

"Where is your wand?" the wizard before her demanded, interrupting her attempt to speak.

"I - I don't have it."

"Rubbish!" he snapped dangerously, forcing Hermione to easily shrink under his hostile gaze. With a simple casting of "_Expelliarmus_," Hermione's wand was whisked from her coat pocket straight into her enemy's hand, leaving her utterly defenseless.

"Not clever at all, Miss."

Hermione's eyes darted frantically about the café, knowing she surely wouldn't find any aid here. She had never spotted additional workers in all the time she had frequented the café. No one else was here except its now dead owner, and Muggles held no power against what a few dark spells could unleash. Even if she managed to run, she would never get far enough before being stunned, or worse. Her situation was hopeless.

"It would appear that your reputation doesn't precede you after all, Miss Granger. I'm surprised you didn't recognize us."

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione fumed, "I've been out of the Wizarding world for nearly a year!"

"Yes, you have. It's about time we remedied that. C'mon, Brams," he nodded towards the man named Brams, who was holding onto Hermione with such force that her arms were starting to ache. "Let's get a move on."

"Wait!" she gulped, her racing mind springing to the helpless kitten locked away in her flat. "My - My cat... He - He's still locked in my flat and—"

"_Your cat?_" the official scuffed, staring at her wide-eyed before bitter laughter rang out into the stifling silence. "Blimey, Brams, she's more of a nutter than I thought!"

"_Please!_ Let me just—"

"NO!" he barked, baring his yellow-stained teeth quite close to her face—too close for comfort; she could smell the lingering tobacco and coffee on his breath. "You will come quietly, Miss Granger, unless you'd prefer us to use the Cruciatus Curse to silence your tongue?"

With his wand, he delicately whisked a few curls out of Hermione's eyes, and her blood went still. She swallowed her reservations quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "That - That won't be necessary."

"Good." Keeping his wand still directed at Hermione's face, he turned to his compadre. "Now then, Brams?"

"Righto."

After giving her a forceful shove, Brams moved away from Hermione to magically put the café back to order. Levitating the Muggle owner's body somewhere out of sight, he returned less than a minute later, a smug look of satisfaction lining his rugged features.

"Ready, Fletcher," he stated matter-of-factly, as though he had simply taken out the garbage.

Hermione was sure she was going to be dizzy or sick soon and woefully closed her eyes as the Ministry official named Fletcher bound her wrists behind her back with a pair of magical handcuffs. "We'll Apparate to Paris and then go on to the Ministry from there," Fletcher explained to his partner, all but ignoring Hermione, now too stricken to speak.

Tears threatened to fall as the witch felt a pair of firm hands snatch her by both arms. Then her body whirled from side to side and her eyes shot open, knowing she would feel far worse if she kept them closed. It had been nearly a year since she had last Apparated—not wanting to risk her magic being traced by Death Eaters, who now had miraculous tracking methods of their own in place—and she instantly felt a horrible wave of nausea hit her stomach as they landed on solid ground.

As soon as her feet met gravity, Hermione lost her footing and went toppling forward, the contents of her breakfast following suit. "I think this one's gonna be—" With that, Hermione vomited all over Brams' dirt-covered boots. "Sick," he finished, cringing in disgust.

"No matter," Fletcher sighed, eying the darkened alleyway to make sure they were alone. "Let's get a move on."

Bram quickly unsoiled his boots with a Cleansing Charm, and the two forced Hermione upward by the shoulders, nearly sending her sideways in a dizzy haze. Her vision was a blur, her nausea still plaguing her in the pit of her stomach.

"Tough it up, love," Fletcher cackled into her ear. "The Dark Lord and the Head of Law Enforcement are going to be so _pleased_ to see you again."

* * *

Severus Snape's black eyes glazed over his pile of paperwork. What he wouldn't give to be back in Hogwarts castle, amongst the familiar trappings of home; or as much of a home as he could call it. At least at the castle he had some privacy and was not constantly under the Dark Lord's overbearing scrutiny. He couldn't rush to the loo without a lingering abhorrence of suspicion following him to take a piss, and he wasn't the only one who felt it constantly at his back.

At Hogwarts, however, he would have had the castle's magic as an added protection shield, but, alas, he would never step foot into that sanctuary again, not even as a visitor. He had been forced to resign and never turn back, even if he still thought of the place often as though it called to him on the wind, wishing for his return.

His stint as Headmaster hadn't been an easy one—_exceedingly_ stressful, to put it mildly—but he would gladly take it again over his current post. He had never felt more the Dark Lord's right-hand pawn than he did in the aftermath of the Fall of the Light.

Correspondences were flying in left and right over various Mudblood sightings he and his team were supposed to be tracking. The majority of said witches and wizards had been caught, but there were a handful that remained at large, yet to be accounted for. And the Dark Lord, though too busy to bother with the ins and outs of Severus's daily reports, wouldn't rest until _all_ of them were captured.

_Every bloody last one of them_, Severus sneered heavily.

Now, with the Dark Lord abroad and seeing to his plans to overrun the Wizarding world as far east as Italy—he had already taken France and Germany with little resistance—Severus was left to oversee several matters in the dictator's absence, the capturing of all Mudbloods amongst the highest on his list of demands.

_"I need you to be my eyes and ears, Severus," the Dark Lord had instructed him shortly after he awoke in St. Mungo's, still severely scarred and stricken by Nagini's attack to his neck. He watched the Dark Lord, struck and horrified—and still very much alive—twirl the Elder Wand around his bony fingers before Severus's bedside, his red slits for eyes staring down at the Slytherin's weakened state without a trace of sympathy for putting him there._

Perhaps I should simply request that he finish what he started, _Severus considered for all but two seconds before the cowardly lion within him reconsidered the matter. _Fucking whey-face!_ he wanted to scream at himself._

_"I hope you shall rise to the task once you have sufficiently recovered?" the Dark Lord offered—nay, requested—in a soft, serious tone._

_Severus had barely been able to reply. Not only were his vocal chords shattered by Nagini's fangs—they had ripped straight through the delicate, complicated mix of flesh and muscle, and gave the Healers a real nightmare in painstakingly putting him back together—but there was also another hard-hitting reality Severus never thought he would have to face: waking up to a dawn he didn't want to live through, which was Lord Voldemort's new reign of terror._

_There he was, the Dark Lord himself, standing before his bedside and spouting a cold, rubbish apology—if it could even be called an apology—before requesting that the spy rejoin his ranks once more within the same breath. "I misjudged you about the Elder wand, Severus," he had offered without feeling. "I must ask that you forget what transpired in the Shrieking Shack and look to the future. I need you at my side."_

_Severus was too busy trying to catch his breath, taking in the form of the still very much alive Lord Voldemort, to answer straight away. Potter had failed. The Boy Who Lived had met his fate as Dumbledore had long ago informed Severus, and now the whole of the Wizarding world was at a mad man's mercy._

_Not only had the past seventeen years of meticulous planning been utterly wasted, but now matters had taken a sharp turn for the absolute worst possible scenario: the Dark Lord had won and Severus Snape was still alive to witness all that he had worked so hard for lost._

What the fuck was I brought back for? Just to see my efforts thrown back in my face?

_Severus raged internally, though all he could do was return the Dark Lord's request with a slight bow and a very delicate utterance that didn't resemble his former deep, smooth baritone. "Yes, my Lord," he croaked, his eyes blank and void of the emotion seething within._

_"I'm delighted to hear it, Severus. I shall call on you soon."_

_With that, the Dark Lord glided out of the room, the unsettling image of a slithering Nagini at his side, which was enough to splinter Severus's nerve-endings, but he kept himself together, waiting for them both to disappear before he lost his composure. He heaved a shuddering breath once he was alone, his chest constricting and his mind frantic._

How could it come to this?

A faint knock on his office door brought Severus back to the bleak present. Lowering his wards with a wave of his wrist, Severus grumbled to whoever it was to "enter."

A new 'recruit,' as they were referred to nowadays, though to Severus there was nothing at all 'recruit'-worthy in forcing people to work for you, popped her head round, entering his office with trepidation. She was a former Hufflepuff student of his, and yet, Severus had never appeared more terrifying to her than he did in his new position.

"What is it, Miss Jenkins?" Severus sighed, putting a hand to his temple.

"Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Brams are here to see you, Sir."

Severus let out a low growl of annoyance. "_And?_"

"They - They have a Muggle," she paused to alter the term that was now regularly used for those of a certain kind, "a - a _Mudblood_ with them."

Severus's ears perked up, his forehead moving away from his cradling hand. "Oh?" he inquired curiously. "Who is it?"

"It - It's Miss Hermione Granger, Sir," the young lady stammered to get out, swallowing her fears as best she could by the strange glint that emerged in Severus's cold, dark eyes. "She's been found."

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**A/N #2: Here we gooooo! Reviews are _greatly_ appreciated to get the ball rolling...  
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	2. Interrogation

**A/N:_ Thank you so, so much for the encouraging reviews, favs, and alerts!_ :) I'm so thrilled that folks are interested in this dark tale of mine. I have _a lot_ planned for this one, so I hope it will be worthwhile to all of you who are invested in what's to come. Please continue to offer me your thoughts as things progress! I'd _love_ to hear from you!  
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**Oh, and since Rosalyn asked (and in case anyone else is wondering): YES, there _will_ be romance in this story! (Heck, I don't think I could ever write these two with_out_ the romance.) However, several things have to fall into place first before any of that can happen, so on we stumble! ;)  
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**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

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**Chapter 2: Interrogation**

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Snape hardly had time to digest the news before the young Miss Jenkins scurried out of the office, making room for Death Eaters Brams and Fletcher to enter, still holding a floppy, barely coherent Hermione Granger around the arms.

Snape rose from his chair, understatedly concerned with the current state of his former student. Considering that she had been missing for nearly a year, however, he had expected much worse, and was inwardly relieved that the girl wasn't as far gone as some of the others his team had snatched in recent captures.

That having been determined, though, Hermione was a right mess in many respects. Her coat was too large and hung off of her frailer-looking figure, and the loose-fitting jeans she wore seemed ready to descend from what he could only assume were protruding hip bones. Her mass of wild curls were frizzed and tousled—_Nothing out of the ordinary there_—and her face... Well, without any proper makeup, her once rosy complexion and the soft speckle of freckles that dotted her nose were hardly recognizable beneath the gaunt, pallid complexion she now bore.

"Picked her up in Amsterdam," Fletcher explained, unable to decipher Snape's inscrutable inspection of the witch he was grasping too firmly by the arm. "In the Red Light District, no less. Curious, where did you get that tip off, Severus?"

"Does it matter?" Snape twitched his upper lip irritably. "You found her, did you not?"

"Azkaban?" Brams suggested, tugging Hermione forcefully and directing her slumped head upward, which did nothing for her wave of nausea. She hadn't yet fully recovered from the two bouts of Apparation and groaned as the room spun before her eyes.

"No," came Snape's brusque reply, his hard eyes locked on Hermione. "The Dark Lord instructed that Miss Granger was to be brought to _me_ should she be found."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered and soaked in the room as her dizziness subsided. She had tried to pay attention to the signs as those goons hauled her up several flights of stairs (Muggle-borns were apparently forbidden to use the elevators), and only just caught the letters outside the office she now found herself in: _The Ministry for Magic. Magical Law Enforcement. Head of Department._

Hermione suddenly flinched. The unnerving silhouette of a tall, cloaked figure standing behind a desk with a certain cast-iron stance she recognized gripped her senses all at once. She would discern that unnaturally large nose that sharply hooked at its tip, that trademark scowl that could withdrawal the friendliest of folks, and those black eyes that could turn fire to ice anywhere. She shuddered, unable to hold back a faint gasp that escaped her lips. She had last seen the man dying on the creaking floors of the Shrieking Shack. Indeed, it was the same wizard, only he was very much alive.

_Severus Snape..._

Her former Potions and D.A.D.A professor's survival wasn't new information, but seeing him in the flesh certainly was, and quite distracting a sight to take in. Hermione hardly felt the rough hands clasping her arms tighten their hold.

It wasn't at all trying to sense the Slytherin's frightening power and aura in that moment. Severus Snape's magic pervaded every square inch of his office, so much so that it was nearly suffocating for someone in Hermione's weakened condition, who hadn't practiced or been subjected to any extended form of magic in ages. Snape's stifling, magical might emanated out of his wiry being, filling the room to capacity and causing the out-of-practice young witch to become slightly dizzy. She cowered from his presence, or as much as she could with nowhere to go.

"But Miss Granger's a Mudblood," Fletcher cut through Hermione's observation, his teeth grinding together in disgust. He took a step back, however, once he found himself on the receiving end of Snape's sudden flare in temper.

"Your point, Rawson?" Snape hissed, clearly annoyed with the henchman.

"Wouldn't the Dark Lord prefer—"

"The Dark Lord wants her _here_, Rawson." Snape's deep vocals cut the agitated wizard down like the slicing of a knife, much like Hermione remembered, and she didn't know whether to be more fearful or strangely comforted by the familiarity of his address. "Unless you intend to overstep the Dark Lord's boundaries and undermine my authority, you_ will_ leave her to me."

"Fine!" Rawson Fletcher grumbled with less confidence. He threw his hands off of Hermione and stalked to the door like a wounded dog with his tail between his legs, Brams following suit and scratching his head, confused by the whole turn of events.

"Her wand, Rawson?"

The wizard abruptly turned on the spot, eying Snape over with reddened cheeks. "What was that?"

"Her _wand_, Rawson," Snape repeated with more emphasis.

Displaying his sudden reluctance, Rawson fumbled for Hermione's instrument hidden away in his breast pocket. With a heavy scowl, he extracted it for Snape to see.

"Very good. We wouldn't want it falling into the wrong hands now, would we?"

Rawson's hands knotted into fists, his grip on Hermione's wand nearly snapping it in half. "And just what are you insinuating, Severus?"

Snape didn't hesitate to unhinge him further. "That you intend to snatch Miss Granger's wand for safe keeping, of course. Stocking up on wands again, are we, Rawson? The Dark Lord will not be pleased to hear of this."

Hermione was somewhat ruffled by the devilish suggestion encumbered with Snape's remark. Her mind turned immediately to her own predicament, wondering what delights the man might derive from subjecting her to in the minutes to come. The frightful possibilities were on the tip of her tongue, until she remembered that her former professor was a brilliant Legilimens. He likely already knew of the fears formulating in her mind without her expressing them out loud; another unsettling notion that made her mouth run dry.

"I was not!" Rawson snapped and drew back, affronted and enraged by Snape's accusation.

"Curious," Snape kept his voice steady and his demeanor composed, "that's not what I heard you thinking just a moment ago..."

Rawson let out an outraged growl of contempt. "_Stay out of my head!_" he barked, his entire body beginning to quake.

Snape equipped the flustered wizard with a triumphant smirk, one that made Hermione's legs lock in place. "I would if your thoughts weren't practically screaming at me, you blubbering idiot! I can see the simple act of Occlumency has been entirely wasted on you! Brams!"

The wizard named Brams clumsily shuffled forward. "Um, yes, Sir?"

"Make sure Miss Granger's wand is taken to Magical Equipment Control, and _that it stays there._"

"Yes, Sir." Brams carefully slipped the wand into his possession and pushed Rawson out of Snape's office by his collar before a jinx could be cast.

"Fools," Snape muttered under his breath once the two men were gone, as though he was unaware of Hermione still standing there.

He let out a low sigh before turning to assess the mute witch in front of him. Whatever his findings or thoughts were, they remained opaque and he ordered Hermione to take a seat. He swung the door shut with a backwards wave of his hand and Hermione detected several bolts and locks audibly clicking into place, conveying rather callously that she wouldn't be going anywhere. Not that she would have been bold enough to dare chancing escape. Snape was reason enough to discourage even the bravest of witches, including Hermione Granger, from pulling something so irrevocably stupid. Besides, she was out of practice and suspected that she wouldn't get far if she tried; not at least without her wand handy.

Snape fanned out his cloak to sit in the leather chair behind his desk, taking a moment to scrutinize Hermione over his paperwork, his beady eyes unnervingly penetrating from his position. It was as though the final battle and the wizard's near brush with death had never transpired; that Hermione had merely dreamt it all. He evidently hadn't changed much, despite Nagini's vicious attack,—physically or otherwise—and was as prickly and elusive and ill-tempered as Hermione remembered him. Even the degree to which he stared her down from across his desk was reminiscent of the Gryffindor's school days, when she, Harry and Ron had found themselves on the receiving end of Snape's gross displeasure and strict discipline many a time.

_Harry and Ron..._

Hermione couldn't stop the charging flashes of memories that came flooding back at seeing Severus Snape again. She was suddenly assaulted by painful remembrances of the constant arguing and bickering that had occurred over this very wizard's loyalty to the Light—to the point of obsession from the Golden Trio, especially.

How many times had Hermione risen to Snape's defense, even against her best friends, particularly when the Slytherin's loyalty was called into question? Even as Harry, Ron, and the whole of the Order had branded Severus Snape a traitor after Dumbledore's death, Hermione had never quite been able to reach the same conclusion. Considering the great lengths the spy seemed to have gone to in the past for their cause, mainly to save hers and her friends' hides time and time over, Hermione had long held on to the belief, however feeble it might have been, that there was _some_ inherent good in Severus Snape.

Despite his many inexcusable faults, Hermione continued in her steadfast belief that the inherent good in the man would eventually make itself known to all; but with the assassination of the Headmaster and the harrowing rumors Hermione had heard of Snape's frightful stint as Headmaster, the witch found herself eating the words she had often given so tirelessly to defend him.

It was excruciating to be reminded of it all now, sitting before the wizard in his cold, dreary office, under his unpardonable gaze and trademark sneer. Hermione shrunk slightly in her chair. She struggled to remember _why_ she had ever pitied him so in the first place, or had come to rise so adamantly to defend his honor when others were in doubt.

"Your remorse is touching, Granger," he unexpectedly quipped, illustrating such mockery that Hermione's breath stalled.

Horrified and offended, her immediate reaction was to, as Rawson Fletcher had moments ago, demand that Snape stay out of her head, but the idea alone held such futility that Hermione smartly clamped her mouth shut instead. She held no rights, power, or sway here. All she could manage was her utmost best to suppress the blush flushing her cheeks, and bite back her tongue as well.

Hermione's eyes zoned in on Snape's face, hellbent on not giving him the satisfaction of rattling her nerves too greatly. Undoubtedly this was a part of the wizard's interrogation tactics: to delve into her mind and leave her either confused, distracted, emotional, or a combination of all three. Too bad she couldn't remember how to successfully block the Legilimen's advances worth a damn.

_Bugger shite!_

Finding Snape's hard glare too uncomfortable to bear, Hermione tried to shift her focus onto something else in the room: the various thick law tomes lining the wall at his back, scattered parchment surrounding his desk, a silver cigarette holder situated just to the left of where Snape sat...

_Odd... When did Snape take up smoking?_

"That's none of your concern, Granger," he sliced through her thought process so unforgivably that Hermione startled. Once she recovered and refocused her eyes on him, Snape cleared his throat and continued, his scowl firmly set on his face, "Now then, how do you explain yourself?"

Hermione's brown eyes flickered. "Come again?"

"_Your disappearance_, idiot girl." His thoughtless address made her flinch; she had forgotten how sharp the man's tongue was. "Care to share where you've been?"

Hermione squirmed and shied away in her seat. "Not particularly, no..."

Evidently, Snape hadn't prepared for the witch to get fresh with him at the off. _Then again_, he considered, _perhaps a near year spent in isolation has given her more back bone than you'd predicted, Severus._

"I would tread very carefully if I were you, Granger."

Curiosity mixed with dread caused Hermione to rear her curly head. "And why is that?" she mumbled.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"If you mean, because I'm sitting here before _you_—"

"That's _exactly_ what I mean," Snape finished for her, his threat acutely noted.

"I'm well aware of what you can do to me, Sir," the young witch whispered back, her attempt not to show fear starting to dissipate under the weight of what likely awaited her now. "No need to wave it in front of my face as if I'm incompetent."

Snape reacted by pinching up his features. "You forget yourself, Granger."

"No, I haven't." Hermione's face shot up at last, giving Snape a full view of her emotional weariness. "You've all made it abundantly clear where me and my lot stand in this new world of yours."

Slowly, Snape's upper lip curled, though whatever else he thought wasn't known. "Yes," he purred, menace-sounding to Hermione's ears, "indeed, we have."

"So, get on with it."

Snape showed no indication of speeding things along. Instead, his raven eyes roved over Hermione anew, with growing curiosity, particularly at her sudden swift insistence. "I beg your pardon?" he questioned, arching a bemused eyebrow.

Hermione's eyes wandered about the room nervously. "Aren't you going to... You know... Brand me?" She could hardly bring herself to speak the words; they seemed to be forced out from somewhere at the back of her throat. They settled upon the air around them, disquietly hanging in space for a time, before Snape's clipped voice cut through after a pregnant pause.

"One matter at a time, Granger. Unless you'd prefer that I force my way into your mind to extract the information I need, I suggest you start talking. _Now._"

Hermione twitched again in her chair. "What would you like to know?"

To that, Snape's pupils constricted again. "_Where have you been residing?_"

"In Amsterdam, in the Red Light District, as your companions already informed you—"

"They're_ not_ my companions," Snape sharply interrupted, which took Hermione by surprise. "Carry on."

"Erm, any chance I could have these damned handcuffs removed first?"

Her request brought Snape up short, but with a degree of annoyance, he hastily extracted his wand and waved his wrist in a circle, vanquishing the magical bindings into thin air. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief at finally having her aching wrists free to maneuver once more.

"Now then, Granger," Snape gave a disgruntled hiss, "get on with it. You've tested my patience long enough."

"All right, all right! I was staying in a flat right around the corner from where they found me—"

"_Which is?_"

"114 Koestratt."

After scrawling down her address, Snape piped up, his reaction unreadable, "Interesting choice of residence."

Although she couldn't decipher his meaning, Hermione didn't appreciate the judgmental tone she detected in his voice; her eyes turned into slits. "It's not even in the heart of that area, _Sir._"

"I believe it's on the outskirts, yes."

Hermione's eyebrows nearly rose to her hairline. "You're familiar with the _Rossebuurt?_"

Snape met her question with a razor-edged retort, "Of what interest is that to_ you_, Granger?"

The dangerous gleam in those eyes warned Hermione to tread carefully, so she drew back to his previous remark instead. "I chose to live there because I figured it to be a less likely place to be found." She crossed her arms and let out a weary huff of defeat. "Apparently, I was wrong."

Snape ignored her little wisecrack and pressed on, "And how long were you living there?"

"About two and a half months."

"And where were you living before Amsterdam?"

"I'd taken the Channel to Paris, stayed there for only a few short weeks, and then went on to Amsterdam. Before that, I was stationed in the United States."

"Yes, we tracked you several times while you were in America."

Hermione watched Snape scribble down the information as she spoke but paused at that bit of commentary. The notion that she was being followed wasn't particularly fresh information to her, but Snape's brash confession and detachment over the fact unnerved her. Miffed by his prowess, Hermione sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. "Yes, I know that."

"Snatchers and Law Enforcement squad got close to capturing you several times, in fact."

"And why are you telling me this, Professor?"

"Don't call me that," Snape unexpectedly spat at her, ceasing moving his quill to give a dismissive wave of his hand; it earned him a befuddled look over from his captive. "I'm not your professor anymore. I haven't been one professionally for well over a year."

"Why is that?"

Snape blinked, confused. "_What?_"

"I was just wondering—"

"That's none of bloody business, Granger. _I'm_ asking the questions."

Hermione drew her eyes to the floor. "Very well... I meant no offense..."

Snape tugged at his cravat, aggravated to no end. If the clever witch was trying to undo him by instigating her own cross-examination, then Snape would cut to the quick—without delay. He tossed his quill aside and brought his long, elegant fingers into his lap, twisting and knotting them together out of sight.

"Why did you go to that café this morning?"

It was Hermione's turn to be confused, for she had only just arrived and couldn't ascertain how Snape would know of that information. "How do you know about the café?" she couldn't prevent herself from asking.

"I have my sources," was all he provided her with in return. "Get on with it, Granger."

Hermione sucked in a shaky breath. "Be - Because I go there quite often when I want to be alone but wish to be amongst people. It's a little less lonely when—"

"I'm not interested in your emotional attachments, Granger. I repeat: _why_ did you go there this morning?"

Hermione blinked and shifted uncomfortably, not following Snape's new line of questioning. "Erm, to get a cup of coffee..."

"And what else?"

Hermione's shoulders tensed at the strange, perplexing look that had settled upon his hardened features. "Sir?"

The edges of Snape's mouth gave a twitch. "You got tired of running, didn't you?"

Hermione's mouth fell open in shock. "I'm sorry?"

"You're a highly capable witch, Granger. You can deduce a suspicious-looking person when you first set eyes on them; you _were_ my student at one time, after all. I know how your mind works. I know of your skills—and your weaknesses—and I know them exceedingly well. I made a study of them for six long years. You _wanted_ to be found, didn't you?"

Hermione was stunned into silence. Had this infuriating man not only just paid her a backhanded compliment by remarking that she had 'skills' (something he had never even made mention of as her instructor), and then gone on to make such an outrageous claim as to suggest that she_ wanted_ to be seized and brought back to England?

_'Wanted to be found'? That_ hit a nerve. Perhaps his interrogation tactics worked better than Hermione had given him initial credit for. She wriggled in her chair and focused on her scuffed up shoes, feigning interest in a particular grain of dirt on the rubber soles, though her scarlet cheeks gave away her boiling anger and offense.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're—"

"Most get tired of running," Snape interrupted, sounding bored. "Eventually, they turn themselves in of their own accord."

"I didn't turn myself in!" This time, Hermione met Snape's piercing stare with one of her own and nearly growled out her reply, a blazing sensation in the middle of her chest rising up through her throat and onto her flushed face, replacing her crippling fears and apprehensions with indignation. "Those bloody hounds of yours grabbed me and—"

"Granger—"

"—and killed a helpless Muggle who tried to intervene on my behalf!"

Snape lifted an eyebrow, the rest of his face neutral and unmoved. "Did they?"

"_YES!_" Hermione exclaimed. "The café owner! Though I don't know why I'm bothering to tell _you_ about it! Your lot doesn't care about killing Muggles or how you treat them—"

"Watch yourself, Granger," Snape warned her again in that low, dangerous tone of voice, through it did little to persuade her.

"—or how you treat anyone who doesn't agree with your botched up, backward principles!"

"_Enough_," Snape's voice rumbled, calculated and steady; it wasn't loud but much like the soft warnings Hermione and her friends had received numerous times as students. It was a chilling advisory, a quiet, yet high, alert that Severus Snape was a wizard_ not_ to be trifled with.

Although Hermione went mute as instructed, she stared Snape down as challengingly as she could muster under the circumstances. Determined not to focus on such troubling thoughts as her possible fate in the minutes or hours to come, as they would only upset and unwind her further, Hermione raised her chin, provoking the very individual who now held her delicate life in the palm of his hands. For the life of him, Snape had to hand it to the ruddy swot. For being as frightened as Hermione Granger undoubtedly was—her trembles, perceivable through her ill-fitting coat, were an unfortunate giveaway—she was forcing a brave face, nevertheless. She wasn't shrinking under his interrogation, the gruesome tactics of which could make grown men twice her age cower in fear.

"Did you keep in touch with any in the Wizarding world whilst you were away?"

Noting Hermione's confusion at the abrupt change in topics, Snape ignored the witch's befuddlement and simply stared on. Slowly, and with thoughtful consideration to the question, Hermione shook her head.

_Foolish girl_, Snape thought, disappointed in her secrecy.

"No, not really..." she answered quietly. "It was too great a risk."

"So, you've been living as a Muggle all this time?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And only using your wand when necessary?"

"Yes, only when one of your dogs got too damned close."

Snape mocked her commentary with a decisive snort, his black eyes sharpening in the dimly lit room. "And how have you managed to sustain yourself all these months, Granger?"

"I..." Hermione gave a slight jolt in her chair at that particular question, one that didn't pass by Snape's awareness. "Pardon?"

"Don't give me that. I find it fascinating that a young witch of your age, having not completed her education at Hogwarts, and without a steady income or a career to live off of, could meet monthly rent payments and feed herself accordingly when she couldn't lay down roots in any one place. Judging by the state of things, however," Snape gave Hermione a wary look over, "it's been a rough year for you. Pray tell, where did you get the money?"

"From - From my parents," she stammered, reacting a little too hastily.

Snape's smirk of triumph again, albeit subtle as it was, only made her anxiety worsen. "Impossible," he snipped; the finality of that word made Hermione's eyes widen.

"_Oh?_" she tried to fire back, well aware of how guilty she probably appeared.

"Granger, the Ministry put a stop to your collecting any of your inheritance after your parents died."

Hermione felt her eyes starting to swell with tears, unprepared for her mom and dad to suddenly enter the equation. "Yes, you _did_ see to that, didn't you?" she choked out, and this time her voice couldn't mask the pain bubbling up through her throat.

Snape reared back a little but remained seemingly unaffected. "I, myself, had nothing to do with it."

"_Bollocks!_"

"Quiet, Granger. You're smarter than this."

Hermione's watery eyes narrowed, her cheeks radiating more color. "Wanted to be sure I had no place to go, didn't you?"

"_You_ made the foolish mistake of running."

"What, rather than stay and be tortured and, in all likelihood, _killed?_"

"Granger—"

"_And what of my parents?_"

Snape displayed the faintest hesitation in answering. "What about them?"

"They were killed, weren't they? That's what you all do, isn't it? Go after our loved ones when you can't get to us!"

"Granger—"

"It's disgusting!"

"Your commentary is unnecessary."

"You had them killed, _didn't you?_"

Nearing the point of losing her composure under the strain of thinking on her parents' deaths, Hermione fought back the emotions that were getting the better of her. The last thing she wanted to do was give Severus Snape the satisfaction of witnessing her tears, but the mere thought of her late parents, taken away from her so abruptly, could hardly be stomached.

"You murdered my mum and dad!" she screeched, unable to hold back any longer.

"I had no part in that, you stupid girl!" Snape's acerbic growl put an end to Hermione's hounding, though not the tears she had tried desperately to suppress. "For being out of the loop as long as you have, you should be smart enough not to insinuate a bloody thing!"

Taking a moment to check himself, Snape leaned forward in his chair and stared down a now emotionally wrought Hermione, who's lower lip was quivering uncontrollably. "I will tell you this, Granger: we learned of your parents' demise and put a hold on your inheritance. It was easy to do. The Dark Lord wanted you, as he _still_ wants you, and we were told to go to whatever lengths necessary to retrieve you. If that meant preventing you from getting access to the money you'd need to keep running, then so be it."

"And killing my parents..." Hermione painfully added, straining to get the words out.

Snape remained perfectly still, however. "Granger, your parents' deaths, as I understand it, were an unfortunate accident."

The anger in Hermione rose up again like a fireball. "Oh, is _that_ how it is with you people?" she snorted; a few more tears trickled down her face, now splotchy and a right mess.

"They were killed in a car crash, weren't they? Their car veered off the side of the road into a ditch."

"Yeah, veered off of its _own_ accord," she muttered, her response laden with suffering. She rubbed her runny nose along the sleeve of her coat and sniffed several times, whilst Snape remained rigid as a statue in his chair.

"Isn't that what the police report said?" he pressed, to which Hermione whipped her head back to face him heatedly.

"How should_ I_ know? I only learned of my parents' deaths _after_ the fact! Suffice it to say, you know a hell of a lot more about the situation than I do, _Professor._"

"Insinuate as you like, Granger. I daresay it will amount to nothing."

"You're right... It won't..."

The will to keep fighting seemed to evaporate before Snape's eyes. Hermione's exasperation was soon replaced by a numb, dull ache as she slunk heavily against the back of her chair and refused to meet Snape's eyes. With downcast, watery eyes that fixed themselves to the floor, and with her head bent and her array of thick curls tumbling forward to half mask her anguish, though her muffled cries could still be heard, soft and distorted and utterly heartbreaking, she waited for the interrogation to continue; but for a time, Snape said nothing. He offered no snarky commands either that she quit crying for that matter. Instead, for whatever reason that would later confound Hermione upon further reflection, Snape allowed her a few quiet moments to cry uninterrupted.

Then the dark wizard's voice rose above her sniffling, his reply coming through rather unsteadily for the first time, "Are you quite through, Granger? Have you gotten it out of your system yet?"

"You're cruel," she smothered behind a raised hand; her words strengthened the tension in the atmosphere. "All of you. You're evil, vile, and despicable. _You'll pay for this._ One day, you'll _all_ pay for what you've done...for what you're putting the rest of us through so maliciously..."

Snape went silent as the grave and waited for Hermione to meet his schooled mask of coolness. Slowly, her dampened eyes drew upward and fastened to his. Although the melancholy lingered in their brown depths, evidence of another emotion was surging behind those once bright, hopeful eyes: hatred.

"Get on with it," Hermione spat, with her jaw clenched.

After drinking in such contempt from the Gryffindor, Snape nodded in agreement, catching Hermione's subtle gesture of scratching at her left arm. "Very well," he answered just as softly, "if you insist."

Hermione bit back another retort and, instead, sniveled and wiped the remainder of her tears on her coat. She eyed Snape sidelong as he glided around his desk, opened the door, and informed his jittery secretary on the other side of the wall to retrieve someone—a name Hermione didn't recognize. Then he shut the door again and turned back to her, crossing his arms over his chest as she had seen him do many times before, and proceeded to stare at her unreservedly.

Hermione met the Slytherin's staring contest, though the longer her eyes lingered on his, the more her trembles at what awaited her began to manifest and grab hold. Snape's icy stare of apathy didn't help matters. There was something sickening about the lukewarm manner with which he stood, staring her down as if she was an insignificant insect he was content to squash, or at least watch someone else crush without concern. His stance was casual, though sturdy, and he didn't utter a single word in the several long minutes that stretched out between them.

Hermione lowered her head to examine her now shaking fingers. She had heard aplenty the horrors that were conducted upon Muggle-borns once they were caught, but sitting here and awaiting her own fate was traumatic on a whole different scale. Some were reportedly killed on the spot (and only at the Dark Lord's command), others were said to be tortured and mutilated for the mere spectacle of it, and some were apparently put straight to work, usually until they could bend and break no more.

Before their futures were decided, however, they first needed to be branded...

Hermione hadn't a clue what the Dark Lord intended to use her for, nor what Severus Snape might have in mind, but the longer she sat there awaiting the outcome, the more she regretted the countless times she had risen to Severus Snape's defense. There seemed to be nothing evident but loathing and disgust in those rich, veiled eyes of his; nothing warm or comforting that Hermione could detect that made her hopeful about her future.

_If Harry and Ron were here now_, Hermione reflected anxiously, her heart pounding against her chest,_ I would tell them they were right about him all along..._

* * *

Hermione let out a deafening howl that shook the room. Tears stung her eyes and washed down her cheeks as her entire face scrunched up in agony. The pain was unspeakable and made her left arm throb beyond her will to stop the spasms that came on as a result. The smell of burnt flesh mixed with blood penetrated her nostrils, her mind growing frantically aware as the seconds ticked by that the foul stench she was breathing in was coming from her own skin.

Once she had somewhat recovered from the initial shock and horror of what was happening, Hermione chanced a quick glance down at her arm, instantly sickened by what assaulted her sight. In black lettering that was mingled with burnt flesh and fresh blood, the offensive term 'Mudblood' had been lashed across the length of her arm. An assortment of numbers beneath the insulting word branded her further, though, at present, she was too nauseated to try to read them. Rimmed around the edges of the letters and numbers were trickles of dried blood, which the menacing-looking wizard who had conjured the curse evaporated with a quick swish of his wand. His rough features held no guilt or remorse for what he had done.

Hermione was too squeamish to look him in the eyes. Thus, she turned away, burying her face behind her tousled hair.

The branding was an entirely different tattoo from the Death Eaters'—a hideous sign that bore deeply negative connotations, particularly in_ this_ new post-Potter world. Without being told as much, Hermione suspected that the mark couldn't be easily erased or eradicated once cursed into one's flesh. She would likely be stuck with this new tattoo for all time.

_For the rest of my miserable existence, however short it may be..._

Hermione peered down at her new branding through fresh tears. She felt less human somehow, less of a person with such an ugly sight violently marking her skin, and the pain associated with that loss was deeper and more heart wrenching then she could have ever mentally prepared herself for.

Was this all she was now? _A...Mudblood? No. 895743?_ Was she no longer Hermione Jean Granger, daughter of Peter and Emma Granger, a Gryffindor with O-Level O.W.L.s. and, had she been able to return for her final year at Hogwarts, surely near perfect N.E.W.T.s.?

_They can't take that from you, Hermione_, her conscience fought back against the wallowing despair gnawing at her insides. _Not by a long shot. No... They can't..._

Hermione vaguely heard Snape dismiss the Ministry official, and then slam his office door with a considerable force that she thought nothing of. It seemed odd that the wizard who had cursed her minutes ago was now walking freely down the hall, away from the gruesome scene where it had all taken place.

Tentatively, Hermione reached out and rubbed her dainty, quivering fingers over the raised capital M and lower case u...d...b...l...o…o...d...

"_Granger_," Snape's commanding voice finally reached her ears. She brought her glazed over eyes up to meet his. Snape was now hovering over her, though she hadn't heard him approach. His own dark irises conveyed nothing but two hollowed shells.

"Yes?" She hardly recognized her own voice anymore; it was too wispy and subdued to be her own.

Snape spoke slowly, quietly, though she didn't understand why, "I shall be informing the Dark Lord of your return. In the meantime, until it is decided what is to be done with you, you're to remain here. The Dark Lord is quite busy at the German Ministry and will not be able see me, even upon request. I shall have to send word by owl. As such, his decision may be delayed a day or two."

Half expecting the witch to interrupt him again, or to at least hound him with a series of more questions, Snape was taken aback when all Hermione did was stare on vacantly, her misty eyes conveying all the misery she couldn't bring herself to express aloud; certainly not to _him_. She lowered her head back down towards the ground, silent tears running down her cheeks that Snape couldn't see.

After receiving no response, Snape awkwardly stepped back. Standing and gawking at the sniveling girl—nay, _woman_—would do neither of them any good, so he quickly busied himself with scribbling a fast note to his Master, informing the Dark Lord of Hermione Granger's return.

_He'll be undoubtedly pleased... Too pleased..._

Working fast, Snape finished his speedy note and stalked across the room to a large window, where a grey-spotted owl sat perched atop a pile of old law books that were collecting dust. He opened the window with a graceful lift of his hand and the owl, holding Snape's correspondence firmly in its beak, flew off into the gusty wind. The sun was untraceable behind the overcast clouds that suggested an impending shower. There hadn't been many, if any, sunny days since the Dark Lord rose to power last May, and on this morn—a day that might end with the sealing of Hermione Granger's fate—there were no bright rays to be found.

"What is to become of me?" Snape heard the young witch's small voice quake from across the room. Her back was turned away from him in her chair, her curly head drooped low over hunched shoulders, but her ears, Snape suspected, were listening intently to whatever answer he was about to provide.

"That is for the Dark Lord to decide," he said, making sure to keep his voice in check. "His response shall be along momentarily."

* * *

**A/N #2: "These are dark times, there is no denying..." Okay, I'm off!  
**


	3. Hermione's Fate

**A/N: Your feedback and enthusiasm for this story have left me astounded! I can't thank you all enough for your feedback and encouragement! It means _so_ much to me, and I hope you'll continue to be pulled into this tale as things progress. **

**Onward! :)**

**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Hermione's Fate**

* * *

"Can you tell me what he might want with me at least?" Her voice was small, fragile, and barely above a whisper.

In truth, she _was_ terribly frightened, but also surprisingly numb. If there really wasn't any hope for her, Hermione would rather seek out the truth now and prepare herself for the worst than be surprised by the onslaught of what might come later.

"I wouldn't know, Granger," came Snape's snip of a reply, as he stalked back to where she sat without so much as a sympathetic glance in her direction.

How could the outcome of Nagini's bite have made the man even _more_ viciously cruel with his tongue? Every chilling word sent a shiver down Hermione's spine, twisting her gut with its seemingly impassive delivery.

"Could you humor me?" she pressed ever so softly, clamming up in her chair. "Could you at least tell me if he plans to kill me or keep me alive?"

"Granger—"

"Because if it's the former, why not just kill me now and get it over with?"

Snape's shoulders tensed at the witch's desperation but also at such a bold suggestion. "I don't make the rules," he managed to get out, though his mouth had gone dry, "and I don't disobey my orders."

"No," Hermione mumbled, her face slouched towards the ground, and her next words shocked him to the quick, "your job is to follow his every whim like an obedient, mindless dog."

She hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her mind and body had gone on autopilot, neither here nor there, and she wasn't aware of what she had sputtered until after it flew out of her mouth. What followed _did_ bring Hermione to attention, however, and momentarily out of her inner turmoil.

"A year spent in isolation has left you with the need to control your tongue, Granger," Snape growled in a manner that could curdle milk. His white knuckles tightened their grip around the arms of Hermione's chair as he aggressively hovered over her, their noses practically touching as cold, black eyes met warm, chestnut brown.

In a matter of seconds, Hermione found a highly perturbed Snape mere inches from her face, his heated breaths tickling her flushed cheeks. In a surge of bravery, she suddenly found that she was no longer afraid of him, though. After the hellish, outstretched nightmare that had been her life for the past two solid years—searching for Horcruxes, being maliciously tortured at Malfoy Manor, losing Harry, her best friend, at the final battle, and then trying to outrun her fate for many, many months—made Severus Snape's wrath of little consequence to her now.

"No, it hasn't—" she started to protest, to little avail.

"I have no idea what the Dark Lord intends to do with you," Snape continued, his irritation increasing with every word, "but, if you still have any inclination to stay alive, Granger, I suggest you keep your fresh comments under wraps and to yourself."

Giving her the stiff upper lip, Snape dropped back from her at last and strolled out of the room to bark another angry order at his secretary.

Still feeling as though she was fighting her way through a fog, Hermione tried to catch her breath, hardly able to grasp at what was happening anymore. Was this _really_ the end? Why was she not more afraid? Was she simply in shock, her mind protecting her from the maddening reality that she may very well be sentenced to death after today?

"Granger," Snape's harsh baritone disrupted her troublesome contemplations. She mechanically turned her head and found someone new—a Ministry guard—standing beside her former professor, his wand at the ready. "You will be escorted to a small waiting cell until I receive word from the Dark Lord."

"Waiting cell? But..."

"Come with me, Mudblood," the guard spit; Hermione chanced a second glance at Snape but found no reaction to such ill treatment.

Then again, what did she expect? Hermione cautiously rose from her chair and, though her wobbly legs moved accordingly, they still trembled the entire way  
down the hall.

She locked eyes with Snape one last time as she passed out of his office, and yet, there had been no trace of compassion in those colorless irises of his that she, even now, helplessly hoped to receive, only apparent indifference for her dire situation.

Hermione swallowed thickly and silently followed the guard as instructed; to where, she knew not.

It became apparent, though, the further they delved into the pit of the Ministry, even after a year spent away from the Wizarding world, and with the obvious changes applied to this newly formed government, where Hermione was being led: the Department of Mysteries.

Remembering that the last time she had been to this part of the building was to retrieve the Locket of Salazaar Slytherin, a fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul, was an eerie recollection indeed. Hermione fell into synch with the guard at her side, despite her ever growing apprehensions at what lay in store, and was escorted to a cellblock she didn't know existed. Then again, it wasn't all _that_ shocking. This was Lord Voldemort's new Ministry, and what a terribly oppressive place it was—now more than ever.

Hermione slipped timidly inside her cell, which was cramped and dreary and smelled fouly of the underground. When the door bolted shut, Hermione slid down the wall onto the dirt-covered floor, shaking fearfully despite her numbed state. A pregnant silence met her ears once the guard stomped away, only this time her isolation, which had normally been merely uncomfortable in the past, was more heavily stilted. The four walls surrounding her felt as though they were about to cave in on her, compressing her steadily until every last breath had been expelled from her lungs.

_Breathe, Hermione. Breathe._

Sensing her anxieties graining strength, Hermione quickly hugged her knees to her chest and stared off into the sinister-looking shadows, forcing herself to take several deep breaths. The prickling reminder of the Mudblood mark on her left arm still tingled, and, subconsciously, she began rubbing at it with her opposite hand, her fingertips stroking circles over the rough patch of skin that had been nonexistent earlier that morning.

_So this is what my life has been reduced to..._

If someone had prophesized to Hermione years ago that_ this_ would be where all of her efforts to help secure a better world would wind up, the proud Gryffindor would have never believed such travesty. They couldn't lose, after all. Their very lives depended upon Harry's success. How far away that long-lost hope seemed now...

A series of fresh tears trickled down her face, but Hermione didn't rub them away this time. Instead, she stifled several choking sobs into the darkness, determined not to crack under the stifling pressure of what awaited her in the hours to come.

_Oh, Harry... Why couldn't you have defeated him? At the very end of it all, how could you _not_ have finished him off? Dear Merlin, WHY?_

* * *

Severus retreated to his desk after dismissing the young witch from his office, burying himself behind the endless piles of paperwork that had been sorted and divided based on urgency: Muggle-born estates, family lineages, investment statements, financial contributions...

Hadn't it been trying_ enough_ spying on the Dark Lord whilst serving under his nonexistent nose every day since the First Wizarding War? Now he was overseeing the fast-paced, hell-bent destruction of the entire Muggle-born race, a certain people he, himself, took no personal quarrels with or saw as less than human beings, unlike the coldhearted heathens he surrounded himself with day in and day out.

If Severus had any further reason to hate himself, _this was it_. The one abominable mistake he had made in his youth towards a best friend had come to manifest itself tenfold in the aftermath of Lord Voldemort's sore achievement: capturing the Wizarding world and leaving all of the double agent's painstaking efforts to secure Potter's success to ruin.

What a terrible cliché his life had become, and all seemingly perpetrated by a misfortunate slip of the tongue that, ultimately, turned the tables on Severus's future. Now, it would seem, the wizard was paying the heftiest penance of all for his mistake, by capturing 'Mudbloods,' the very people he had sworn—at least, to one witch—to protect many years ago.

And failed.

Blood ties had never mattered to him. After all, who was _he _to brag about his own lineage? His mother had been a pureblood who allowed her sordid, drunken husband to jilt her of her own magic, and that man—Severus's lousy excuse for a father—hadn't any favorable attributes worthy of mention, and not because he was a Muggle. As it was, Severus held no proud family heritage of which to boast—not that he would have anyhow, even if he _had _any high-class relatives to speak of—and yet, here he found himself, in charge of the very task force assembled to wipe out Muggle-borns entirely.

A year or so ago, Severus wouldn't have imagined fulfilling such a post. How ironically the events of his life had unfolded—one long, endless string of derisive action after another, despite his efforts to rise above the hollowness of his sad existence, to do something noble and worthwhile. His position as Head of Magical Law Enforcement, however, where the Dark Lord reigned supreme, was quite possibly the most degradable deck yet that Severus had been forced to play.

Severus Snape was many things—"unforgivable bastard" being at the top of that list, he was certain—and he wasn't one to play his cards far from his chest. Remorse was only the beginning of what surged through his veins every time he was forced to wake up and do what he did. _Every fucking day_. Surveying his former student trembling underneath his injustice, his lack of protection, and his barrage of questions was difficult for _him_ to stomach, let alone for the poor girl suffering at his hands. _Not that you have any choice_, he often reminded himself whenever perpetual guilt threatened to overpower his fortitude.

Of course, none of them—including Hermione and Severus—could have foreseen this level of monstrosity, that they would be on the side of surrender instead of triumph, on the brink of defeat instead of prosperity. That blasted notion called 'hope' had protected most of them, right up until the moment when Potter was killed and the shift in the war tipped to the hands of Lord Voldemort. The Light died out and the veil was lifted, bringing them all to a horrifying sense of completion: the end of the world as they knew it. A new dawn would rise the falling morn, its beginning unlike any of the mornings that had come before.

_Hermione Granger_, Severus reflected with a deep scowl set upon his face. A harsh series of wrinkles broke out along his brow as he pondered his former student. Surely, she never expected to be on the receiving end of so much disdain merely for being born to Muggle parents. He knew it was an unwarranted nuisance that Draco and other snakes in his House had subjected the girl to ridicule over at one time or another, but the Dark Lord's current reign of terror made the mere insults thrown at Muggle-borns on the school playground ridiculously childish by comparison.

This hell was real, and its servants held no mercy.

_Hermione Granger..._

Severus rubbed at his chin, pensively staring out a window next to his desk. The once prized Gryffindor had clearly suffered a great deal—more than enough to warrant a proper breakdown. Her friends were dead, her parents were gone, and she had been forced back into the Wizarding world against her will to face her fate, finding it more intolerant and violent towards her kind than when she had originally left it.

As clever and perceptive as the know-it-all had once been, she certainly wouldn't ever suspect her former Potions professor of possessing a shred of morality, let alone a bloody heart. _Not now. Not after today._ To her and others like her—all of those who were good and decent and _not_ Severus Snape—he was the enemy, and rightfully so.

The dark wizard could surmise how he might be written into the history books someday, if things ever took a turn for the better. Survivors like Hermione Granger—_if _she survived and the people rose up against the Dark Lord's black tyranny—would cast blame on him for turning everything towards destruction—that 'traitorous spy,' they would surely pin him as—starting with the death of the great Albus Dumbledore, the elderly wizard who had duty-bound Severus to take his life when the time came.

Severus had carried out his end of the bargain, but to what unforgivable end?

_This_, he answered his own question with a snort. _Pulling the Dark Lord's strings yet again; seeing to the death and destruction of the Muggle-born race. What a fucking legacy._

Hermione Granger would see things no differently, and Severus couldn't blame her for that. No one was privy to what the _real _Severus Snape thought, what his calculated actions had truly been by crossing back and forth repeatedly between two Masters, or what he thought of himself, for that matter.

_No one... _

Severus raked his fingers through his limp, greasy locks, an ever deep-seated frown lining the delicate contours of his mouth. His letter to the Dark Lord had included a suggestion he had previously made to the psychopath in the earlier months prior to the witch's capture. He suspected it would cost him his sanity if the Dark Lord agreed to his request, but Severus would cross that bridge _if_—and hopefully if—it came to it. If he could save one life, then it would be worth the hefty price he might pay.

After all, _he_ wanted to do it as much on his own terms as those who were putting faith in him to do so wanted it as well. _If you fail her, and thereby fail the others, Severus, what then?_

* * *

It was impossible to get comfortable in the confined, dark cell where she could hardly see her outstretched hands in front of her face, let alone much else. Hermione begrudgingly sighed and kept her body firmly pressed against the wall, her head burrowed between her drawn up knees. She didn't want to think about what was likely to come, but it was difficult not to, and proving a futile effort at that.

_You knew this day would eventually come, Hermione. It was only a matter of time before they found you. If Harry or Ron were here now, they'd tell you the same thing. _

_And while you're at it, stop thinking about them, would you? Stop thinking about all of them! They're not here!_

Hermione pierced her bottom lip to keep from losing her composure. How terribly she missed them, and how regularly their faces haunted and consumed her thoughts. _Harry... Ron... Lupin and Tonks... Mr. Weasley and George... Poor George... Couldn't take Fred's death; couldn't stand being without his other half... Kingsley... The staff at Hogwarts..._ All of her great teachers, whom she had admired and revered since she was eleven years old and hoped to one day emulate, perhaps even call 'colleagues,' if life had gone her way...

All gone. All reduced to nothing but ash and dust.

_Merlin, what on earth could you possibly want to hang around here for anymore?_

Hermione wrapped her arms snug around her trembling form, but the protective self-embrace wouldn't provide much comfort or peace of mind. _Not now. Not after today._ She could hardly recall a time when she had experienced harmony and tranquility, or even a shred of actual happiness anymore. When was the last time she had truly laughed, for that matter? She could no longer recall.

Hermione tried to remember those that had survived—_Were they even still alive?_—and how they might be faring now. _Ginny... Mrs. Weasley... Draco..._ The boy had helped her out, after all, in her most dire moment of need, so she should reflect on him and worry about his wellbeing, surely? She would have starved if it hadn't been for his unexpected generosity.

_Merlin, if they find out..._

Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance at the door, where the wards on her prison cell were momentarily lifted to allow a figure to sweep in with a lit wand: Severus Snape. Hermione drew upward in shock, and then squinted her eyes at the infuriating light that now bathed her cell in an obnoxious, blue-tinted glow.

"Sir?"

The lean figure of Severus Snape whisked the door closed behind him but kept his fierce stare fixed on her. He looked exceptionally annoyed to be occupying the same space, or perhaps it was just the grimness of her cell, which Hermione couldn't blame him for; she didn't want to be here anymore than he did.

"I have a few more questions for you, Granger."

"Oh..." she mumbled and shifted her shoulders against the wall.

"And I've brought you something."

Hermione ears perked up, surprised. "What?"

Without explanation, Severus levitated a small, wrapped item from behind his back that appeared to be half of an uneaten turkey sandwich. Hermione hadn't realized how starved she was until the smell of toasted bread and sliced meat penetrated her nose. She greedily snatched it from the air and scarfed down a bite before managing to get any words out, not even thinking twice if it was safe to consume.

"Thank you," she sputtered, giving the dark wizard a curious look over. His expression never betrayed his thoughts, however, and that sneer of indifference conveyed to Hermione that her gratitude seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.

"If you require nutrients in order for me to get an ounce of levelheadedness out of you, then it would seem that it's appropriate, yes?"

Hermione was too perplexed and, frankly, too hungry to argue that moot point and wasted no time in taking another large bite of the sandwich, even if she _was_ puzzled as to why Snape would bother with bringing her anything.

Wishing to fill the awkward silence that had settled, Hermione inquired in a hushed voice, "How long am I to stay here?"

"Until the Dark Lord returns my owl, which shouldn't be long now."

"Then what else do you want to know?"

"I've sent a Ministry official to raid your flat in search of any conciliatory evidence."

Hermione stopped chewing and gave Snape an incredulous stare. "Conciliatory evidence?" she repeated, her eyes narrowing up at him.

"Yes."

Even amidst the darkness, Hermione could see that the man was not only agitated to the extreme but also seemed dead tired—the heavy bags beneath his eyes and his sunken cheeks were rather haunting to take in. The bluish light from his wand only made him more haggard and sickly to behold. In fact, now that Hermione was able to survey the man properly, if not simply in sharper lighting, Snape looked positively ghostly. She almost felt sorry for the wizard, until she was shaken back to the chilling reminder of why she was presently locked up in a cold, dreary cell, and that the person standing before her in all of his intimidating fashion was the reason for her present circumstance.

"As you should well understand by now," Snape continued, unaware of Hermione's troublesome contemplations, "Muggle-borns are no longer permitted any forms or objects of magic that belong to the Wizarding world. There are, of course, severe penalties if such regulations are violated. Is there anything you would like to confess to now whilst you can? This is your only opportunity to do so, Granger, and it'll make it easier on you if you come clean."

Hermione went tight-lipped and all but forced a bit of bread down her throat. "I've got nothing of value you could possibly want, Prof—_Sir_."

Not faltering an inch in his most sinister of glares, Snape gave her a curt nod that set her cheeks burning. "Very well," he replied quietly, as though she were already guilty of..._something._

"I have a cat in my possession, though, that I'd very much like if someone could take care of."

Snape tilted his head, having not expected _that_ response. "I beg your pardon?"

"My kitten, Moo. If someone could at least see that he's fed and looked after—"

"I don't see to the welfare of rodents and pussycats, Granger," Snape snarled, the faint tip of his wand emphasizing his stringent facial features, "and neither will anyone else. We're only to see that any Wizarding items you have in your possession are returned to the appropriate hands."

_'Appropriate hands'!_ Hermione wrestled internally, not wanting to make things worse for herself. _Then again,_ _how could they be any worse?_ She decided on scowling rather than snapping something back and turned away to face the concrete wall.

"That brings me to another question," Snape continued, as if she hadn't looked away, "one which you never answered."

Hermione's eyes slowly drew back to his over her shoulder. "I'm sorry?"

"The money?" Snape waited, noting immediately how Hermione's entire body stilled at his inquiry. "Where did you get the money? I'd prefer not to use Legilimency on you, if it can be avoided."

"_Oh?_" she found her composure crumbling. "I would have thought high and mighty wizards like yourself thrived on digging through people's minds and reducing their brains to mush!"

Snape's face darkened before her eyes, if that were possible. "Watch your tone, Granger," he issued in a most ominous whisper. "I don't take kindly to catty insults."

"Why should I?" Hermione cried out, pressing her luck instead, her voice quickly reaching the point of hysteria. "I'm going to be_ dead_ in a matter of hours!"

"And don't try to change the subject!" he hissed through clenched teeth. He stared her down over his pointed nose. "Now then, _who_ gave you the money?"

"I..."

"No use in trying to protect anyone. We'll find out who they are one way or another, Granger, so out with it."

Thinking fast, though her heart was beating a mile a minute, Hermione blurted out her answer. "Ron."

Snape's eyebrows came together suspiciously. "Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes... He gave me his savings when he decided to come here to confront you all."

"I see." Snape paused, clearly contemplating the information she had provided him with. Those obsidian eyes, however, somehow all-knowing, though Hermione had no idea how or why, seemed to have drawn their own conclusion. Much to her already tattered nerves, it would appear that Snape didn't buy her answer. "I will be sure to check his bank records to see if you are, in fact, telling the truth."

Hermione did her best to appear unaffected by the Death Eater's threat. "Suit yourself."

Snape started to move towards the bolted door but suddenly halted in his tracks, his robes sweeping the air with dramatic flair. "For your sake, Granger, I do hope you aren't lying to me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hermione replied with equal challenge, though the fight in her was waning fast. Not only was she desperately hungry, but she was also physically and mentally drained. "Anything else?"

Snape shot her one of his unsettling smirks. "Yes, there is..." He straightened his posture, sizing himself up. "Why did you give up?"

"Pardon?" Hermione's eyes widened at _that _unanticipated question—again. "I've told you already, I _didn't_ want to get caught!"

Snape was evidently unconvinced. "You're a clever witch, Granger. I daresay you could have easily overrun my men, if you so desired, so the question remains: why didn't you try?"

Hermione's mouth dropped open, caught up short by Snape's insinuation, which she couldn't make heads or tails of. Did he somehow think she had an ulterior motive for coming here? That she had devised some miraculous plan to survive _this?_

"I... I honestly haven't a clue what you're going on about, Sir."

"Ahhh, yes, indeed."

"Look, if I had my way, I'd just like to be left in peace, but seeing as 'peace' isn't a registered word in any Death Eater's extensive vocabulary, including _yours_, I'll opt for _not_ dying as a second option."

_Even though there's nothing left for me here..._

Snape didn't speak for nearly a minute, though his piercing eyes never averted from hers, making the tension in the atmosphere nearly unbearable to withstand, at least for Hermione, who began to squirm under his intense scrutiny. "Yes," he eventually concluded after a time, "that _is_ a most illuminating answer, I'll admit."

Catching a whiff of that infamous irony in Snape's low drawl, Hermione tried to appear irritated rather than unhinged. "What is_ that_ supposed to mean?"

"That you don't put up a fight when caught and return here fully aware of the consequences that may befall you, and yet, you don't necessarily want to die."

"You, yourself, said people get tired of running, Prof—_Sir_."

"Indeed, I did, but then you don't seem all that afraid, Granger, all things considering, which I would say is quite—_uncommon_—particularly in one so young."

Hermione reared back, ever more confused. "So?"

The edges of Snape's mouth faintly drew upward again, though not enough to be considered as much as a half-fledged smile. "It is curious that you're not as daunted by the prospect of what awaits you here as most are, and yet, you _want_ to live. By this point, most Muggle-borns have given up or cracked under the pressure of what's to come. It's a strange paradox of tendencies I haven't witnessed in many we've captured. Most are either accepting—even welcoming—of death itself, or scared shitless; one extreme or the other." Hermione's hairs abruptly stood on end at this slicing bit of commentary. She bit back her tongue, allowing the wizard to continue uninterrupted. "_You_, on the other hand, gravitate somewhere between acceptance and..._hope_. It's a peculiar contradiction."

Hermione shifted her eyes beneath the man's unwavering stare, finding she could no longer meet their cold depths, so disquieting as they peered down at her. Somehow, Hermione felt relatively exposed by such a penetrating look as the one Snape was giving her.

"I'm glad you find me so worthy of your in depth analysis, Sir," she mumbled towards the ground.

That elusive smile, if it _was_, in fact, a real smile, extended a fraction, though Hermione didn't catch it. "Hardly," came his clipped response, causing Hermione to scoff at whatever mind game he was obviously trying to engage her in.

"What's it to _you_, anyway? What do you care about what _my_ fate will be or what my hopes are for the future?"

"I don't recall ever expressing to you whether I gave a damn one way or another, Granger."

Hermione's pupils constricted, her fueling anger enough to meet his unsettling gaze once more. "In that case, it's comforting to know one of us has no problem laying his head down on the pillow at night. It must be _awfully_ peaceful."

A strange expression passed over his weary features. He pursed his thin lips together and let out a low, dangerous hiss, still sneering down at her all the while. "You have no idea."

Hermione awaited more, but when Snape offered no further explanation, she grew quickly uneasy by the eerie silence that lingered. "Was there anything else, Sir?" she prompted, scooting herself against the wall.

"Yes," he issued this time with more bite. "Your arm."

Hermione raised a curious eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"_Your arm_, Granger." She continued to give him an empty gaze, however, leaving Severus to snarl his annoyance and point directly to it with his lit wand. "Let me see," he commanded, and Hermione startled at the brisk force of his tone.

Heeding his order, Hermione held out her shaky left arm before him, drawing the sleeve of her coat up to her elbow so that Snape could make it out properly in the darkness. There was still some minor blistering around the letters and numbers, with a trickle of dried blood outlining the marking, in part from the spell used by the wizard who had cast the curse on her. The vile description was now even more prominent-looking against the harsh contrast of blue light and the shadows that engulfed her cell.

Hermione couldn't bear to look at the marking for long; the twinges of physical and emotional pain were enfeebling enough, so she desperately refocused her attention on Snape, privately gauging his reaction. His eyes were glued to her arm and bore an indecipherable expression that also marred the rest of his face.

The silence between them stretched out for nearly a minute before Snape finally glanced from Hermione's arm to her, those raven irises sweeping over her in a manner she didn't quite understand. It wasn't sinister, but it wasn't pleasant either. It did, however, cause her to visibly shudder, and not on account of how cold her cell was.

With a curt nod, Snape grunted and swung the door open with a flick of his wrist, crossed through the open door with as much dramatic flair as his billowing robes would allow, and cast the door shut with another fierce whisk of his wand. The pounding of his dragon-hide boots drifted away from Hermione down the hall until they grew too faint to be heard.

_Alone._

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding in all that time and slumped against the wall. When would this all be over? She hadn't been here very long, but it already felt like an eternity in her mind. More to the point, _what the hell was_ that _about?_

_Breathe, Hermione. Just breathe. It will all be over soon..._

* * *

Severus returned to a quiet, uneventful evening at Spinner's End. No response had come from the Dark Lord, so Hermione Granger's fate would be decided another day. Severus saw no reason to stick around his office late into the night, even if he would have to return in only a matter of hours.

_No rest for the wicked._

It may have been a dive, with all of the gloomy representations of a man's wretched past inked along the pealing walls and in the scruffy furnishings, but Spinner's End acted as Severus's only source of solitude—a place where he could finally let his guard down and open his mind without the risk of discovery. No one questioned his whereabouts after hours—not even the Dark Lord himself, as Severus now held such favor and confidence from his Master as to warrant this small blessing in disguise—and the calculated wizard never allowed any room for suspicion.

Immediately retreating to his library with a glass of Elven wine and a hefty tome in hand, Severus found that neither could squelch the heavy thoughts looming in his mind that, oddly enough, reeled around that blasted Gryffindor. _She's too young to die_, he reflected with an unreadable scowl as he finished his first glass and poured himself a second. _Then again, they all were, Severus..._

Severus immediately tried to reign in his morbid thoughts, wishing to analyze the witch's motives instead, if there were any to be unearthed. _I'm surprised she seems to have given up already. I thought she was made of stronger stuff. Yet, there's something else there; a clinging to hope, perhaps? Still, the despair... You could see it..._

Finding himself flustered and involuntarily angry, Severus poured himself a third glass of the favorite Elven wine from his collection, but the delectable contents did nothing to soothe his troublesome reflections. _Troublesome?_ He snorted. Wasn't he supposed to be entirely numb to these situations by now? Sure, Hermione Granger was one of the only ones left alive from the Light, from the broken Order, and thereby a bright spot that Severus had secretly fought alongside all these years, _but that world is no more. It's gone. And it isn't coming back anytime soon. Unless..._

Aside from _that_ ghoulish reminder, there was another matter eating away at Severus's conscience; something the witch had said that struck him so deeply that thinking back on her words made him tighten the grip on his glass.

_'Your job is to follow his every whim like an obedient, mindless dog.'_

Severus cursed the air around him and slammed his Potions book down on the coffee table. Try as he might, those biting words from Hermione Granger badgered him ruthlessly. _She doesn't know a bloody thing about me, my intentions, or what I've done! For her or for those thoughtless brats she called friends!_

The only person who had learned the truth, aside from Dumbledore, was Potter, now, too, dead and gone. What would the boy have done with such compromising information had he lived? Would Severus have been forgiven, or spited forevermore? It didn't matter. The truth about Severus Snape had died with the pair of them.

"Damn them!" Severus disparaged aloud, tightening his hold on the tethered binding of another book he had snatched up from an end table. He fumbled for a fag in his pocket, replacing his empty glass with a cigarette laced between quivering fingers. "Damn _her!_ She doesn't know anything! Not one bloody thing!"

Severus quickly gave up on reading for the time being, and hunched forward on the couch, black hairs sweeping into his eyes. With a wave of his hand, his cigarette lit itself and he proceeded to inhale several long drags as he stared into the crackling fireplace, his mind lost deep in thought.

He could help her, if she would let him. He could still try to do something decent again, even if it cost him little or no gratitude in the end. He had gone without acknowledgement or understanding most of his wretched life, after all, so none of that would be difficult to stomach, especially from someone like _her._

Besides, Hermione Granger still had a role to play in all of this, as did he.

With another deep inhalation of the lit tobacco, Severus reclined back in his chair, the weight of the world clearly written all over his stricken, colorless face. _If only the Dark Lord would grant me this one small request... If only... Then, perhaps, we may stand a chance..._

* * *

Five o'clock in the morning saw Severus _Accio_'ing two phials stored in his laboratory: one meant to conceal the stench of alcohol on his breath, and the other to scourge his splitting headache. He downed each in one gulp. The potions were of his own design and the tastes rather unpleasant, but there was no time to lose, no matter how badly his aching body protested for the comforts of his warm bed over his cold, stifling office. He hadn't bothered to sleep or change out of his clothing.

A response from the Dark Lord would surely be waiting for him, if not when he arrived then shortly thereafter. The maniac wasn't one to delay matters when it came to Muggle-borns, particularly one of Harry Potter's few remaining surviving friends. Hermione Granger was a prize to be rationed, and one that many had bargained for, including Severus himself. The Dark Lord would cast his judgment and then Severus would have to play his cards carefully, particularly if they didn't go in the witch's favor.

_Let us hope that the less personal risk I'm forced to take, the better for us all..._

Once he felt the effects of the potions take hold, Severus threw on his traveling cloak and Flooed back to the Ministry at full speed; or as fast as his near forty-year-old legs would carry him. He had long felt and undoubtedly appeared a great deal older than his years; but he ignored the stiffness in his legs and the drained energy that fought his every step, pressing onward as swiftly as he could summon the strength. One didn't keep the Dark Lord waiting, especially if he desired a follow-up response, in which case Severus was expected to act proficiently.

Severus entered the empty Atrium and took off in the direction of the elevators. For the well-trained Legilimens, closing off his mind was as easy as flipping a switch these days. A few casual greetings from late night passersby on their way home, or early risers like him heading into work on the weekend, disrupted the wizard's otherwise quiet stroll. So immune to hiding in plain sight was he that Severus thought nothing of what they might think of his coming to work at this time of morning.

Severus exited the elevator at Magical Law Enforcement and threw open the door to his office. Sure enough, the grey owl he had sent out the day before was waiting for him, hooting in the corner with an envelope pressed in his beak. The window directly behind the creature had been left open, allowing a cool breeze to settle upon the room. Severus closed it with a wave of his wand to thaw out the chill, extracted the letter from the owl's beak, and handed the excited bird a small biscuit as a reward.

Severus opened the owl in haste and scanned the Dark Lord's reply. A frown settled upon his face as he read through it more than once.

Once it was tucked away out of sight, Severus set about writing a follow-up correspondence. The Dark Lord would promptly expect the wizard's gratitude, and Severus would grovel accordingly, even if he despised himself for it.

So, he had granted Severus permission. That was one small stroke of good fortunate that had worked in his—and Hermione Granger's—favor.

_For now._


	4. A Slave of the Mind

**A/N: Unfortunately, it seems that the notification for Chapter 3 didn't make it to everyone's Inbox. So, just FYI, Chapter 3 is up as well, and you might want to—_should!_—read that chapter first before moving onto this one. ;)**

**_Thank you again so much to everyone leaving feedback!_ I really appreciate hearing from you guys, so please don't stop!**

**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: A Slave of the Mind**

* * *

_Hermione found herself incapable of moving. A sudden downpour drenched her from head to toe, her normally wild curls wet and sticking to her face, droplets rippling down her cheeks and blending with her tears. _

_Anyone who might chance a glimpse her way could see she was either in pain or crying or both, but she wasn't aware of anyone else watching her. Closed off inside her mind, there was no mistaking her sorrow._

_It was the first time Hermione had cried since discovering her parents had passed a month prior. She had sought shelter from the rain that afternoon in a small café in Portland, Maine, where she had been in hiding the past few days; but after spending hours in the café, mindlessly buying coffee and trying to lose herself in a book that simply couldn't retain her interest, Hermione found herself on the verge of a full-blown panic attack._

_The anxiety had been slowly building since she first arrived in the States a couple months ago, and trying to ignore the fact that two more people had been wiped from her life was terribly trying. It became ever more difficult to withstand as the days wore on._

_Hermione managed to wrap herself up in her coat before stumbling out into the pouring rain, just in time for the full onslaught of her panic attack to take hold. One of the baristas had asked if she wanted a refill. What she got was a distraught-looking young woman flipping her hands up in the air, muttering several indecipherable words under her breath that bordered on choked sobs, and fumbling with her belongings before taking off as though she was being followed._

_But Hermione was alone—most definitely so—and no one was tracking her here. The weight of her parents' death, as well as those of all the faces that still haunted her dreams, smacked Hermione out of her book and into the pouring rain._

_Air. She needed air._ I have to breathe!

_Hermione pushed her wobbly legs down the street and around several corners, not paying any attention to where she was headed, more concerned with trying to still her breathing than seeking shelter from the rain. She reached the Waterfront, where she finally stopped racing in front of one of the piers stationed along the water's edge. There, she gazed out onto the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean._

_Somewhere, across that sea, was her old life: the home she had left to come here. Only the States didn't feel much at all like the comforts of home, of the Wizarding world to which she truly belonged, and had thought she would remain in the rest of her days._

_Would this ever feel normal? Would she ever grow accustomed to being on her own, without anyone for company? Without her friends? Without her parents?_

No... Breathe, Hermione. Breathe. Harry... Ron... Mum, Dad...

_Hermione whimpered into the wind that rippled against her skin. Her thoughts were suddenly consumed by haunting images of her best friend with the lightning bolt scar, who had held the weight of the Wizarding world on his shoulders for far too long and, ultimately, failed in his quest to vanquish the Dark Lord. Finished at the hands of Lord Voldemort, something Hermione was still struggling to come to terms with, he had left her and the rest of the Light alone to pick up the fragmented pieces and forge ahead._

_Everything went to hell in a hand basket after Harry was killed in the Forbidden Forest. Watching Hagrid carry her friend's lifeless body through the front gates of the crumbled school crushed many of Hermione's hopes, but Neville Longbottom—dear Neville—had rallied them all, and they fought on—many of them bravely to their ends—but then they were overrun. Neville had been one of the last to fall, along with McGonagall. Hermione remembered being pulled back by Arthur Weasley, but not before watching the fiery, elderly witch being Crucioed by one of the Carrow twins. It was a nauseating image that had remained engraved in her mind to this day._

_Then Ron had the audacity to run off and leave her, too. How could he? The irrational, pig-headed sod! In a heap of despair and festering anger, the headstrong ginger had stalked off to avenge the deaths of his brothers and father, who was killed a month later, only to get himself killed as well, just as Hermione had warned him would happen._

_Now, her parents were dead, too. More loved ones on a growing list of lost lives. How much more bad news could she bear?_

_Hermione wrapped her arms tighter around herself and choked back the tears that still found their way out._ Ron! Stupid, selfish Ron! _How could he leave her?_

_She wanted to remain angry at him forever, but it was difficult not to comprehend his grief and what had led to the brash decision that cost him his life. No matter how much she resented his indecisive action in the end, Merlin help her, Hermione loved and hated the stubborn lad for being so thickheaded, yet brave. If she hadn't been the rational one—the logical force of the trio—she probably would have done the same, especially after learning of her own parents' shocking deaths. Their 'accident' had Death Eaters written all over it._

There's no way that was a bloody accident!

_Unlike with her parents, however, who were far away in Australia, living under a pretense that their lives were different and that they had no daughter, Hermione had been with Ron the day he left. She had begged him not to go, pleaded incessantly with him that it was futile, but her words weren't strong enough to dissuade him. For all Hermione knew, Ron had made up his mind days before, and there would have been no persuading him otherwise._

_Even though the cause had been lost and the Light had fallen, Hermione had desperately tried to reach Ron, insisting that they needed to focus on helping Mrs. Weasley and those of his family who remained; they needed to work through their grief, not act irrationally on it. Ron wasn't going to buy time, though. He couldn't stand the terrible mound of guilt weighing him down day after day, knowing what had become of his brother, George, and Arthur in the weeks that followed the Battle of Hogwarts. He couldn't accept that running away was to become their lives, the norm, their everyday._

_"It's only temporary, Ron—"_

_"Temporary?" he had shouted at her, exasperated. "Look around you, 'Mione! We're dead! WE'RE ALL DEAD!"_

_Hermione went to bed in tears every night after that. There was plenty of reason to lose hope, after all, and to believe in the doomed inevitable. Arthur had been caught whilst going in search of Kingsley, who was also in hiding, and was tortured to death for his favorable treatment towards Muggles. They said he screamed for his wife before the end. George had committed suicide days after the battle, unable to cope with the death of his twin brother, Fred. There was no note to say goodbye, no message explaining his reasons for leaving them, but, naturally, everyone knew why..._

_When they found him cooped up in one of the Muggle hotel rooms they had been lying low in for days, with the shades drawn and a noose firmly wrung around his neck, there were no screams or clamped hands to mouths at the awful sight of his dangling body. The Weasleys were a broken unit by then. All they could do was internalize it, swallow their shock and grief, and wash it away, along with George's body, which they buried on the side of the road the following morning before moving on to their next hide out._

_Hermione couldn't blame George or Ron or anyone else for giving up more than she could blame herself for what happened in those early weeks after the Fall of the Light. Some chose to stay, others chose to go. The remaining Weasleys found themselves bogged down in despair. Even Ginny felt lost, for she had also seen Harry's lifeless body, and could now add her brother, George's, to the list._

_"No!" Ron roared at Hermione and pushed her out of the way the morning he left, even when she raised her wand in a failed effort to stop him from going off to face Voldemort and his minions at the Ministry. "They've taken everything from me, 'Mione! I don't care! I DON'T BLOODY CARE ANYMORE! LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

_"But Ron—"_

_"Don't say it, 'Mione! DON'T!"_

_"Please, Ron! You - You're all I've got left..."_

_"What's the point?" The words were practically torn from the back of his throat. "They'll take you, too, 'Mione! You should leave! You should go! You know what they'll do to you once they find you here. They'll torture you; they'll kill you. They'll hunt you down until they find you!"_

_"But... Ron..."_

_"We—_I_—can't protect you! Don't you see? I wish I bloody well could! But I fucking can't! And I'm sure as hell not going to run anymore! Not after what they did to Dad, to George, Percy and Charlie—"_

_"Ron, please! What about your Mum—"_

_"They've taken everything from her, too, and I intend to get it back!"_

_Ron turned his back on her then, his face beet red and his eyes swimming with the tears of a very wronged man, and stormed off towards the edge of an abandoned junk yard to Disapparate. In a panic, Hermione staggered after him, begging and pleading for him to reconsider, telling him that what he was about to do was "idiotic and foolish, not to mention selfish!" but he wouldn't listen. He spun on his heel to meet Hermione's panic-stricken face, her eyes also filled with tears, and defiantly shook his head._

_She hadn't comprehended then that that moment would be the last time she would ever see Ron alive, but she would remember it later. Oh, yes, would she ever remember it well, down to the very last detail. As angry as he was, there was almost a will on Ron's face, a peacefulness, a resolution to die doing what he thought was right._

_"I have to, 'Mione," he whispered rather than shouted this time, his voice wrought with pain and suffering. "I have to defend my family. Everyone's broken. I have to make a stand... For them."_

_Hermione quickly wiped at her eyes and stomped closer. "Then I' m coming with you!" she insisted, her determination swift._

_Ron's blue eyes widened in horror. "NO!" Hermione jolted and reared back, struck down by his response. "You need to get yourself somewhere safe. Find a way, 'Mione. I know you can outwit them. You're smarter and more resourceful than any of us—"_

_"Ron," she whimpered, but he cut her off again determinedly._

_"Do it, 'Mione, please!"_

_"Ron, don't—"_

_"Survive, 'Mione. Promise me you'll survive."_

_"I..."_

_"Please? Promise me?"_

_"Of - Of course...but..."_

_Hermione hardly knew what to say. For a stretched out silence, all the two could do was to stare into one another's eyes, soaking in the other's saddened and defeated reflection, before Ron offered in a low murmur, "Don't be so hard on yourself, all right?"_

_Hermione rattled at the tenderness in his voice, as well as his unexpected words. "Wha - What?"_

_To her utter shock, Ron gave Hermione a glimpse of that trademark goofy smile of his; it was for the briefest moment, but it was one she would retain long after he was gone. "You always beat yourself up when you're not in control of the situation. Don't do that. Not this time. This was my choice, 'Mione. Accept that, won't you?"_

_With that, the tears began to fall freely. "I..." She could hardly form a coherent thought anymore. "Please, Ron... D - Don't go... Don't leave me all alone..."_

_Ron swallowed hard and squared his shoulders, clearly struggling with his will to move. "I have to, 'Mione. I... I'm sorry." Before Hermione could so much as part her lips to beg him to stay one last time, Ron called over his shoulder a quiet, "I'll see you later," and Disapparated._

_Hermione crumbled. Sobbing and clutching her wand with both hands, she slumped to the ground and cried harder than she ever had. Her friend was gone, and she knew in the back of her mind that he was never coming back. He had left her, just as Harry had abandoned them all._

Breathe, Hermione. Breathe.

_As she stood crying by an abandoned port in Maine, looking out onto an endless ocean of memories, Hermione openly wept for her friends, for her parents, for this pathetic excuse that had become her life. She hadn't prevented Ron's death. She had failed him, just as she had failed Harry and now her parents._

_Why did everything have to be so screwed up? How had all she had ever known gone so irrevocably wrong?_

The imagery suddenly blurred to nothing but black smoke and, soon, the scenery was replaced by something altogether different from before.

It was months later, only Hermione was no longer weeping on an empty pier. The persistent thrumming of her heart gave way to the fear this memory conveyed without any explanation required.

_Someone was after her; someone she could sense with all of the inherent magic that trickled through her veins, despite not having exercised its uses in many months. The clever witch couldn't see them, but all of her senses alerted her that they were closing in. Very close. Two. Male. Older. More experienced, highly skillful. Death Eaters or Snatchers, for sure._

_Should she run? She quickly made note of the many Muggles strolling up and down the wall of shops alongside her. With this kind of crowd, she would probably have better luck trying to blend in than outrun them. Yet, her instincts told her to make a run for it._

_They were getting closer—one in a grey coat, and the other in brown. She caught sight of one of them withdrawing his wand from underneath his sleeve before a couple stepped in front of him, thereby blocking her vantage point. _

_Hermione turned around and quickened her pace, her mind reeling as she wedged in between shoppers in an attempt to lose them. "Excuse me," she kept apologizing, ignoring the angry glares she received for bumping into those she passed._

RUN, HERMIONE! _her instincts kicked in, the throbbing in her eardrums becoming virtually unbearable._ RUN!

_Hermione's legs sprang to life and, thinking fast on her feet, she muscled herself in front of a rather large group of teenage boys and dodged off to the right, ignoring the obnoxious catcalls that followed her down another—thankfully cramped—wall of shops. Hermione stormed down the narrow pathway as fast as her legs would fly, making her way to the entrance, and chanced a glance back twice to see if they were still with her._

_They were._

_Her heart catapulted into her throat. A breeze of grey and brown-coated figures sprinted towards her, also trying to dodge in between the swarms of Muggles, and having as much difficulty as she. Several elderly women swatted the men with their purses and cursed them as they tried to push their way through._

_Hermione knew she had to Disapparate, but not with people literally bumping into her left and right. There was the slight chance that she would nick one of them in the process or unwittingly Disapparate another helpless Muggle alongside her. She couldn't chance being seen disappearing into thin air, for that matter._

_Hermione's frantic eyes scanned the hallway for a ladies' loo, relieved when she spotted one at the halfway mark along the corridor. Hermione ducked into the loo and, not wasting a second's notice, Disapparated._

_Just as her body began to whirl, the two gentlemen came into sight. Spotting where she had dived off to, and with wands at the ready, they burst into the loo, sending several Muggle females shrieking and nose diving back into their stalls or onto the ground to take cover. Just as they were about to cast hexes to prevent Hermione's escape, she popped out of sight and landed freely at the first place that entered her mind: Central Park, New York City._

_Hermione had never been to Central Park, but she remembered pictures of it in magazines her mother would buy, prattling on to her and her father about how one day they would all "see Manhattan." _

_Finding herself glancing all around her in a whirlpool of fear and dread, Hermione took a deep breath when she realized she was safe—for now—and forced herself to move on, though she wasn't certain where to. She had left her belongings back at her apartment in Salem, Massachusetts and would have to return at some point to claim her things, but there was nothing to do but wait, in case either of the Death Eaters following her had already gotten wind of where she was staying. Luckily, she had opted to go to a mall just outside of Boston rather than doing any local shopping back in town; but the Dark Lord was cunning, and so were his lackeys, so Hermione bought as much time as she could by wandering around Manhattan, though it was hardly the first impression of the city she had hoped for._

Hopefully, they don't already know where I'm staying_, Hermione worried, keeping tight-lipped as she ducked into the nearest café she stumbled across._

_After spending as much time in the café as possible, and sensing the waiters were ready to kick her out after a couple hours of not ordering anything but tea or coffee, Hermione wandered the streets again without any destination in mind. Her skittish tenacity to stay calm was undermined every time she caught someone chancing a second glance in her direction. Luckily, she was quickly reassured that they were merely curious Muggles and not anyone worth fretting over._

_"Probably staring at my bird's nest of hair," she grumbled under her breath as she continued her aimless stroll._

_Finally, by the time darkness fell over the bustling city that never slept, Hermione decided to chance Disapparating back to Salem, where she continued to wander the various small streets of town for some time to ensure that she wasn't being followed._

_Around midnight, she made her way back to her flat and withdrew her wand, using it to scan the area. She didn't like using magic since there was the off-chance that she could be traced—the Dark Lord himself had been perfecting such surveillance techniques in recent months—but there was nothing for it. She needed her belongings. If those two men were waiting for her inside, Hermione wasn't going to give them the opportunity to snatch her helplessly without a fight._

_To her luck, there were no signs of their whereabouts or hints of disturbance to her flat. She was alone. She had marginally escaped capture, and was, for the moment, in the clear._

_"Move on immediately, Hermione," she told herself aloud once safely tucked away in her apartment again. "You can't stay here any longer. That was too close."_

The imagery suddenly blurred once more, trickling away into nothing but blackness, before a weathered bit of parchment Hermione held in her hands came into view. It had taken more than a dozen _Aparecium_ incantations to make the ink appear, and Ginny's whimsical cursive at last filled the page, though Hermione secretly hoped no one else might be able to decipher its possessor, least of all _him_.

_Dear H,_

_Messages are being intercepted daily, so I hope this owl actually reaches you. How are you holding up? I miss you so much. I hope you're faring better than any of us. Mum's kept us moving every three or four days. B nearly got himself caught by some Snatchers the other night whilst out gathering supplies. Just goes to show you how unstable things really are in these parts._

_I hope it's safer where you are? I know you can't tell me, but at least write and assure me that you're safe when you can, won't you? Things haven't died down at the Ministry. SS and the others are still at it. Penelope and her parents were detained two weeks ago; almost makes me grateful P isn't alive to see what's happened to her. Most don't know what's being done to the Muggle-borns. It's frightening, H..._

_We can't chance buying the _Prophet_ anymore, so we have to resort to hearsay and gossip wherever we find it. Some are saying the Muggle-borns are being used to form an army of some kind, though what that could possibly be is anyone's guess. Others have said they're being (forgive me for saying it!) killed on the spot. We ran into another of the Light just the other day, who told Mum that she heard the males are being castrated and the woman are being made infertile. But no one really knows with certainty..._

_Hogwarts has been completely disbanded, as you know. Hagrid's gone. I'm not sure if you heard? Stood up to the Carrows over their mistreatment of the creatures in the Black Lake, and that was that. Horrible; absolutely horrible, H._

_Word has it SS really enjoys his new position of power. I guess being Headmaster wasn't thrilling enough for him. Greedy slime bucket!_

_I finally caught up with L, but she's...I don't really know, H. She was always strange and loony, I know, so now I can't tell if she's just being herself or truly lost her mind. She talks about N a lot, especially his last moments, which I can't stand to hear over and over. It's odd. She talks to him as if he's still around._

_I wish you were here. I feel like I'm slowly going mad. I understand why you had to leave, but...still. I just wish you wouldn't feel so guilty about it. If you ever want to regroup, just say the word, all right?_

_I should end this here. Please let me know how you're holding up. Write soon!_

_Love,_

_G_

_Hermione echoed a weary and weighted down sigh regarding the heaviness that hung in the atmosphere, though she was completely alone. Things were getting worse. _

_"If only I could go home, if only I could..."_

_Hermione wiped fiercely at her eyes. It was amazing to her how much a person could cry. How many tears had she shed since leaving England?_

What's the use? What will the tears solve?Nothing. Stop it, Hermione. Breathe.

_Hermione vanished the piece of parchment. She would write to Ginny at a more convenient hour. It was three thirty in the morning, and her eyelids were ready to close. _

_Throwing another treat from a small tin filled with peanuts to the owl fluttering at her window sill, Hermione double-checked the locks and bolts in her flat and climbed back into bed, hoping her restless insomnia wouldn't give her too much trouble._

_She wouldn't hear from Ginny again, and would wonder in the passing months whether her friend was still alive._

* * *

Sleep didn't find Hermione easily that night in her cell. With only the cold, hard floor to sleep on and a toilet housed in the corner to relieve herself, Hermione was grateful to still have her coat on her back and bundled it more securely around herself.

She relived several old memories that night, crying and whimpering every so often in the darkness, though no one was around to hear her muffled sobs or desperate calls to the dead. When she awoke from her latest nightmare sometime in the middle of the night, she gave up on sleep entirely and sat up, perching herself against the wall and rubbing furiously at her wet eyes.

_What time is it?_ she pondered briefly before deciding she really didn't care.

As she sat huddled with her arms woven around her knees, Hermione let her exhausted mind drift to all manner of things, finding that they seemed to keep settling on Severus Snape every time she tried to divert her thoughts away from the mysterious wizard. Why had he analyzed her earlier? Why did he abruptly ask to stare at her mark? Did he want to ensure she had been stamped well and good?

_Damn him!_ she cursed him inside her head.

Snape should be coming for her today, she suspected, to inform her of what the Dark Lord had decided to do with her; it was only a matter of hours and she would either be free of her plight—if death truly _was _freedom—or would continue to soldier on, even if it seemed that there was nothing worth fighting for anymore.

She should be preparing for her possible execution, shouldn't she? Although, how did one exactly do that? _Pray? To whom? Harry and Ron? Mum and Dad? No... It won't solve anything._

There were times Hermione could have sworn that her parents and friends spoke to her, like a whisper on the wind, but she chalked that up rather quickly to lapses in sanity. After all, she talked to herself enough on her own, mainly in the months she had been forced to live alone, that hearing other voices was probably just the next step towards losing her mind—right?

Then there was Severus Snape's damnable analysis of her person ringing in her head. With everything she had to concern herself with, she shouldn't be trying to discern the in betweens of the earlier conversation she had had with the former Potions Master, surely.

_He's vile, and you probably_ are _losing your mind._ Hermione shivered and brought her forehead to her knees. _Please... Let this all be over with. Soon._

* * *

Hermione later awoke with a throbbing headache, particularly once a loud slam of the heavy, metal door catapulted her out of sleep like a throbbing smack to the back of her head. She had no idea when she had fallen back asleep, but her body had slouched against the wall into a rather awkward and uncomfortable position, and Hermione was feeling the painful effects of it.

"Get up, Mudblood!" a disgruntled guard spat at her. "Severus Snape is waiting for you upstairs! _Up!_" He nearly heaved her to her feet before she could so much as uncross her legs.

"All right, all right!" she growled, several frizzy curls falling into her squinting eyes.

The guard ignored her low griping and practically dragged the witch down the hall to the stairs. Why they weren't taking the elevator hadn't occurred to Hermione until she caught a glimpse of a golden sign posted directly next to one of the elevators: 'For Authorized Wizards and Witches Only.'

Hermione winced but tried not show how deeply upset that notice caused her. The guard's grip was also far too tight and was starting to make her arm ache.

"Is this _really_ necessary?" she cried after having her body thrown into Snape's office; the guard simply disappeared with a smug look over as he shut the door. "I can walk just fine on my own, you know!"

Hermione was met by the sight of a sneering Snape, never a good sign. She immediately regretted her outburst, particularly at catching sight of the wizard's wand wedged between translucent, boney fingers.

"Be quiet, Granger. Your voice is far too irritating for this early in the morning."

"Morning?" Hermione glanced about the room, hoping to find ready access to a clock. "What time is it?"

"Five thirty."

Snape swung his billowing travel coat around his lean frame. It wasn't quite as long as his trademark robes, however, which peeked through at the bottom of his trousers.

"Oh." Hermione was taken aback. She had expected it to be much later in the day and couldn't account for why she had been summoned before the Head of Magical Law Enforcement at this hour.

_Unless..._

Hermione's heart froze; she wasn't quite sure if she had stopped breathing, for all she could do suddenly was stare nervously at the sturdy-looking wand held firmly within Snape's hand. She tried to swallow but her mouth was parched.

Was this to be her execution? Was this really _it?_

Snape unexpectedly moved around his desk and came barreling towards her in two or three strides, causing a startled Hermione to stumble backwards and barely right herself. _Merlin, no_, she thought in a wave of panic. She might have let out an actual whimper, she wasn't sure, but Snape halted a few inches from her and angled his eyebrows, appraising her with a strange expression.

"I'm not going to kill you, you idiot girl," he spat through a soft hiss that made her heart jolt back to life.

"Oh! I... _You aren't?_"

To her surprise, Snape rolled his eyes, as though she had just spoken out of turn in his classroom. "No, I'm not. In your case, the Dark Lord has decided to be merciful."

"Me - Merciful?" she stuttered, still trying to calm her thrumming heartbeat.

"Yes." Snape took a calculated breath, his next words sounding as though they were physically painful to get out. "You are to live with me now."

Hermione's racing mind came to a screeching halt. "_L - Live with you?_" she repeated again, aware of how utterly stupid she likely sounded, even to her own ears.

"That's right," Snape issued without a trace of emotion; his face was a tight mask of what she could only assume was apathy. "Were you not aware of the Muggle-born Enslavement Act that was put into law shortly after the Dark Lord took over the Ministry?"

"I..."

Hermione struggled to speak. She was still quite shaken over thinking just moments ago that she was about to be executed. Now, she could add shock to her list of jumbling emotions that this dreadful morning had brought upon her in just a few short minutes. _Live with Snape? Become his..._ Hermione struggled to swallow again and met Snape's pallor, hard face with fresh trepidation.

"Yes," she managed to answer, finding her voice had weakened.

Snape returned Hermione's timid gaze with a cold stare that, to her, echoed of nothing but disdain. Those black eyes sharpened amid the rising sunlight creeping into the room, casting soft rays across his sunken cheeks and defined nose. A pregnant silence emitted until Snape finally addressed her again, this time in a calculated murmur.

"Then you should know, Granger, that the Dark Lord has sentenced you to be my slave. I own you now."

* * *

**A/N #2: Well, now...**


	5. Designating Destiny

**A/N: Happy Thursday! :) **

**I have a longer chappie for you this time. As previously warned (and you've probably surmised this already if you've read this far), there may be elements to this story that you don't enjoy or that make you uncomfortable. I'm pushing my _own_ boundaries around with this piece, so I hope the ride is as uneasy and intriguing and thrilling for you as it is for me.  
**

**_Thank you once again for all your lovely comments, favs, and alerts! :)_  
**

**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Designating Destiny**

* * *

"Your - Your slave?" Hermione found herself repeating, taking a trembling step back from the ominous figure towering over her.

Snape's reply was simple, yet brash. "Yes, that's right." Uncomfortable with the awkward, stunned look Hermione was wearing, Snape let out an aggrieved snarl and adjusted his winter coat. "Now, if you don't mind, it is the weekend and I have no intention of sticking around here any longer than I've already endured. Come."

Snape brushed past an aghast Hermione on his way towards the door, but his command was swiftly acknowledged, for the gaping witch didn't hesitate to follow his lead. She nearly knocked right into him when he abruptly turned on his heel, his wand still at his side, to stare down his large, pointed nose at her. Hermione's eyes shifted nervously under the weight of his glare.

"From this day forward, you're _my_ responsibility, Granger," he explained matter-of-factly, sending a proper shiver down her spine, "and you're to obey me and do as I command, or there _will_ be consequences. You're clever, so I need not level with you about the particulars regarding types of punishment, but make no mistake: I'm _not_ your professor any longer, nor am I your ruddy guardian. You work for _me_ now.

"Thus, you _will_ do as I say, or I won't hesitate to make you pay the hefty price for your disobedience. You won't ask questions, you won't speak out of turn, and if I tell you to do something, you'll do it without questioning my authority or giving me attitude. Is that well understood?"

Hermione shrunk under his shadow. His speech made her feel like a helpless child again, although the heaviness of his words was different than in years' past, and not merely because she was now an adult. His threats seemed far more dangerous and threatening this time. As her professor, there had been mutual boundaries. Now that she was his 'slave,' Hermione feared, those boundaries would be tossed aside, the new dividing lines left entirely up to him, and she would have little to no say in the matter.

_Breathe, Hermione_, she reminded herself, attempting to force calmness. _It could be worse; or could it? Oh, bugger! Just breathe. Nod. Do as he asks._

"Y - Yes, Sir," she mumbled under her breath, her attempt at getting a mere two-word answer out a vigorous struggle.

Snape's foreboding pupils searched hers a moment. Then his shoulders straightened. "Follow me," he ordered and swung open his office door, turning unexpectedly on his heel again, which caused Hermione to stumble backward to avoid another unwanted collision.

Alarmed, she drew back another step when Snape hovered over her, craning his neck down to meet her open face. "And don't try to run," he hissed quietly, "or your punishment will be most _grievous_, indeed."

Hermione gulped and nodded emphatically, unable to answer. Snape's sharp eyes roved over her petrified expression one last time, as if to be certain that his threat held, before he pressed on, leaving Hermione to stagger after him in haste. She remembered those rapid, determined strides of his from Hogwarts and had to practically run alongside the man to keep pace. If the dark wizard noticed her physical struggle, he paid it no mind and veered off towards the elevators.

The elevator ride itself proved eerily quiet, with Hermione chancing sidelong glances at Snape as they rode it together in silence. Snape scowled and stared straight ahead all the while, supposedly determined not to look upon his new responsibility. Although her study of him was swift, Hermione thought he appeared much changed since the last time she saw him in the Shrieking Shack over a year ago. The encounter had been terrifying, and upon closer inspection, Snape didn't seem as well recovered as the first time Hermione's eyes had fallen on him in his office.

He was thinner, for one—paler and gaunter than she remembered—which Hermione never thought possible. He wore his robes well, but he had obviously always veered on the side of underweight. His complexion was now sickly pale, his lean frame like that of a spider. His straggly hair, greasy at the roots, was longer than it had ever been to Hermione's recollection and stopped just below his shoulders. That ever enormous nose of his swallowed the rest of his face per usual, and she recognized that sunken grimace of his, too, though the lines marring the corners of his mouth, brow, and beneath his heavy eyelids had deepened since the war's end. The burdens of warfare, and undoubtedly his stress-ridden double life, were written all over Snape's weather-worn face, much to Hermione's unsettling realization. He looked considerably older than the witch suspected him of being. Late forties, perhaps? Hermione hadn't a clue but quickly averted her eyes so as not to stare.

The Ministry was quiet and still as they made their way out of the elevators and into the abandoned Atrium. Hermione found her footsteps mostly drowned out by Snape's dragon-hide boots, which echoed loud and scathingly along the marble-tiled floors.

For a fleeting moment, an anxious-ridden Hermione pondered escape, seeing as the light was so poor here and they were all but alone in this part of the building; but any small ounce of bravery the surviving member of the Golden Trio felt was speedily struck down by the will of her levelheaded conscience. She could nearly sense her mind laughing at her brief consideration of pure idiocy. This wasn't just any wizard Hermione would have to outrun and outsmart, this was Severus Snape. Any attempt at freeing herself would be futile. Snape's dangerous warnings about attempted escape brought the daring thought to a pass, like the flickering of a candle.

No, she wouldn't risk it. She would be lucky to still have legs if she tried.

Snape said nothing as he suddenly seized Hermione by the arm, illustrating more force than she thought necessary, and sent them Flooing through one of the empty grates. They entered a cramped telephone booth, and Hermione found herself shoved onto a relatively quiet, snow-covered street, where Snape didn't hesitate to withdrawal his hold of her arm and stalk on ahead of her, expecting Hermione to follow. He didn't so much as turn around to ensure that she was with him either, but, to her, Snape might as well have had eyes sewn into the back of his head; one step left or right and he would pounce on her like a rattle snake striking its prey.

Hermione's wobbly legs endeavored to keep up. Every nerve-ending in her body felt as if it were being shaken and tethered too tightly. She wanted to be sick; she wanted to scream, to cry out, or to, at the very least, converse with Harry and Ron. How absurd was that? They were dead. _Lucky bastards._ The Dark Lord had sentenced her to a most bloodcurdling punishment: to be Severus Snape's personal servant, in whatever capacity that might entail. The ugly, brutal thoughts rummaging through her brain were painting a series of nauseating possibilities that left the witch shivering in the cold, though it wasn't the weather that left her chilled to the bone.

Hermione had to shake the horrifying images from her mind several times, the realization dawning on her that she hadn't been paying attention to where they were headed. Were they still in London? _Bugger._ It didn't appear to be so. Whatever town they were in, it looked considerably run down. The streets were littered with debris and the houses all looked relatively the same, with red brick, dingy windows and drawn curtains. A dog barked somewhere off in the distance, but, otherwise, the town was spookily silent, dreary, and deserted.

As Hermione examined the identical houses they passed, she suddenly collided with something as hard as stone that sent her flying backward several paces. It was Snape again, and he was eying her with the utmost contempt.

"Watch where you're going, Granger," he snipped against the biting wind; it was certainly effective, for Hermione swallowed and nodded her compliance.

"Sorry."

Hermione was about to inquire as to why they had stopped when she—thankfully—remembered another one of Snape's warnings: don't ask questions or speak out of turn. Thus, she forced her mouth shut and followed Snape through a creaky front gate that was covered in frozen moss and up several stone steps to the front door. Apparently, they had arrived at what had to be the wizard's home.

_Not very impressive_, Hermione considered in her quick survey of the place, scrunching her nose up as she stared at its front—bricked, rusty, old shutters, nothing all that exciting or that set it apart from any other home on this block.

Snape unexpectedly growled over his shoulder, causing her to startle behind him, "And keep your bloody thoughts to yourself."

Hermione went wide-eyed. _Of course_, she should have been more careful. She cursed herself for not having been more guarded with her thoughts. Then again, she was severely out of practice.

_Idiot, Hermione!_

_That_ inner monologue of hers was going to cost her dearly if she ever allowed her mind to run away with her again. She waited for Snape to say something else, but he simply grunted and lifted the wards with a graceful wave of his arm. Hermione sensed the locks, bolts, and spells rising to allow them access through the foyer. As Hermione stepped inside, she could hardly make heads or tails of the place, since her eyesight was met by darkness.

"Close the door, Granger," Snape ordered.

Hermione jumped to do so and felt the wards fall back into place. It was a chilling reminder that, although she could no longer practice magic, she could still sense it with every fiber of her being. She eyed Snape as he hung up his winter coat in a small closet to her left and then requested that she dispose of her own. She was slightly surprised that he granted her permission to keep hers in the front closest along with his but chose smartly not to say anything. As it was, Snape's request came out more like a marching order than a gesture of good will. Hermione grudgingly did as the irritable man instructed and silently followed him further into the house.

Snape lit several candles with his wand, giving Hermione a proper view of what was in front of her at last. There was a staircase directly to her right and a little further down the narrow hallway were two rooms that she curiously peeked her head inside. To the left was a cluttered sitting area that contained one large couch, a wingback chair placed next to an overly sooted fireplace (currently burning and casting inviting heat into the room), and what looked like a liquor cabinet in the far corner.

A disarrayed room to Hermione's right, however, was what truly captured her eye. To her rather pained delight, the room was showered with books, some of which had somehow ended up strewn all over the room, piled on tables or, in some cases, on the floor, although hundreds upon hundreds had also been given their proper do along the far shelves that stretched the length of the entire wall. Hermione found herself soaking in the space with a mixture of awe and envy. She could almost smell the other worldly aroma of leather bindings and old, yet unfamiliar, text. She unconsciously took a step closer, compelled by some darker, unknown force, when Snape's baritone rang out, snapping her from her reverie.

"In here, Granger."

Hermione blinked to shake herself out of her daze and crossed the hall to the sitting area, where Snape was presently waiting for her. He was standing next to the hearth with his arms crossed, his impenetrable eyes staring unwaveringly across the space at her without a glimmer as to what was stirring behind their depths. The light emitting from the fireplace gave his unnatural complexion a healthier glow but the hard lines beneath his eyes and around his mouth an even harsher definition.

"Sit," he requested, nodding towards the worn couch perched against the wall.

Hermione complied in silence and cautiously took a seat, unsure of what to do with her clammy hands. At first, she sat on top of them to keep her fingers from visibly shaking but finally determined it best to hold them in her lap. She darted her nervous eyes every which way but Snape's, agitated by the wizard's unnerving tactic of staring her down a while without uttering a word. She certainly hadn't missed it in her time away from the Wizarding world.

"Stop fidgeting," he finally clipped, earning a startled blink from Hermione.

"I can't help it," she muttered back and proceeded to chew her lower lip.

"If you do as I ask, no harm will come to you."

"That isn't very reassuring."

"It should be," he replied coolly, "considering the way of things now. If you do as you're told, Granger, you won't be harmed."

Hermione lowered her gaze, intently focusing her attention on her quivering hands. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to disappear; or to at least be alone with her overwhelming thoughts. It was a difficulty grasping where she now found herself—everything had escalated so quickly—and, in truth, Hermione wished nothing more than to mourn the loss of her freedom on her own and not in front of_ this_ man, who certainly didn't deserve her tears.

Hermione waited for Snape to speak again. If he wanted to appraise her silently the rest of the night, she wouldn't offer him the satisfaction of knowing how greatly she feared him at the moment.

"Stay where you are," she heard him command in a low murmur.

Snape's footsteps trailed away out of sight and down the hall to what Hermione could only assume was the kitchen. She could hear soft clanking and general shuffling about. After a while, her attention drifted to the fireplace, mesmerized by the wild flames flickering and dancing about. Unanticipated tears sprung to the surface of her eyes, and Hermione hastily made to wipe them away before Snape returned. If he caught her crying, he would surely scold her for that, too, probably by threatening to hex her if she didn't stop.

_So, this is my new life..._ Hermione lamented as her watery irises scanned the empty, lifeless room; it was as dismal and dead as she felt inside. _This god-awful place is it for me?_

Snape soon returned to the sitting room with a levitating tray of hot tea and two empty cups and saucers. The tray was hoisted onto an array of books that covered a wooden coffee table in front of Hermione. Snape eased into the wingback chair next to the fireplace without a word, apparently waiting on the forlorn witch to help herself to tea; or else, perhaps, this was his first test. Hermione didn't dare move and merely surveyed the tray from where she sat, keeping her expression blank.

Snape made note of her uneasiness and slowly drew one leg over the other, settling into his spot before insisting, "Take some tea, Granger, before it gets cold." He cringed at Hermione's visible flinch of his offering. Did she honestly think he intended to let her starve?

_Insolent chit._

Hermione finally conceded and poured herself a cup, even though her hands were shaking quite badly. Snape's eyes honed in on her trembling fingers. That grave determination of hers not to show fear was both admiring and pathetic. Snape was secretly almost impressed.

"Do you want me to pour you some, Sir?"

Snape angled his head and eventually gave a swipe of his long, dark hair. "No, I'm fine for now. Drink."

Obviously still uncertain of his intentions, Hermione reluctantly brought the cup to her lips. She took the smallest sip possible and found that the tea had an odd taste to it; her senses heightened, gathering frantically that it was likely laced with something else, perhaps a potion. She eyed Snape apprehensively over her cup and didn't dare drink more. Snape's vacant expression wasn't reassuring either, so she lowered the cup back onto the tray.

"Do you not like it?" he questioned, his voice monotone.

Hermione pinned her back to the couch. "No, it - it's fine."

To her surprise, Snape's mouth curled into an elusive, thin smile. "You always were a poor liar, Granger; all of you Gryffindors were."

That remark stung Hermione more than she anticipated. Her cheeks flushed heatedly and her hands clamped together.

"Thank you for that," she returned with mock enthusiasm before realizing she was speaking out of turn, "_Sir._"

Snape leaned back in his chair, his unnerving smile—if that's what it truly was—still in place. "You'll learn."

Hermione didn't want to ponder the meaning behind _that_ remark, so she scooted further away from the tea and kept her mouth shut, awaiting the wizard's address. Feeling utterly helpless, she inadvertently began rubbing at the mark on her left arm, unaware of Snape catching her in the act. It was a torturously long time before he concluded that he had had enough of the stifling silence.

"There are a few rules I want to lay down, Granger, so pay attention." Hermione raised her head; his authoritative tone was reminiscent of the former professor she remembered well, but something in his command was, again, altered. His shoulders hunched forward in his chair as he stared long and hard at her. "You're to report to me at six thirty every morning. You may start on breakfast and then meet me in the sitting room. You'll find all the food and ingredients you need in the pantry and fridge. If I'm not present, you shall simply wait for me to appear and not touch anything in the interim, do you understand?" Hermione compliantly nodded. "I'm normally up well before six, so six thirty should be more than reasonable for you.

"You are not to help yourself to anything in this house without my permission. That includes food and drinks. This isn't a shelter where you can help yourself to whatever you wish. This is my home and I won't have anything tampered with. You should know that I have all manner of wards in place throughout this house, so if you _do_ decide to go meddling with any of my things, you may find yourself at odds. This place answers to me, so I suggest you tread carefully and treat it with respect."

Snape paused, allowing for his words to sink in. "I'll have chores and tasks assigned to you later in the day, but, for now, I'd like to rest." Snape gracefully rose from his chair and Hermione followed suit, solemnly giving one last trepidatious glance at her tea cup before Snape interrupted her thought process. "Come, I have a bedroom laid out for you."

Hermione tentatively trailed after Snape's billowing cloak up the stairs, finding herself somewhat distracted by those familiar, rippling robes that seemed to move so effortlessly in stride with the rest of his body. She remembered such a thoughtful observance of those trademark robes before, perhaps first in her sixth year, just before he had killed the Headmaster; but those days seemed like a distant memory. Another lifetime, perhaps.

A wave of terror and anxiety washed over her then, and Hermione was suddenly desperate to escape to somewhere private. She was also feeling utterly spent, both mentally and physically. _It's been a long twenty-four hours, Hermione_, she reminded herself with a heavy sigh.

It was entirely strange to be in Severus Snape's home—intrusive, even—and Hermione couldn't help but wonder if this act of 'mercy' by Lord Voldemort was, indeed, just that, or if it was going to be a fate worse than death.

_I suppose I'll find out..._

Snape harped at the distracted witch for dragging her feet, and Hermione quickened her pace up the steps. A small, unlit hallway greeted her eyes and a cold rush crept over her body, causing a shudder at the peculiar tingle that flew down her spine.

_Wards_, Hermione swiftly realized. _So I can't escape. I suppose that's standard now for Muggle-borns..._

"It _is_," Snape interrupted her inner monologue again. She fidgeted as she moved closer to him. "Consider yourself fortunate, Granger. Most Muggle-borns don't possess a private room or even a bed to sleep in. For the time being, I am bestowing you with a small fortune. Whether you retain it or not remains to be seen."

Hermione frowned but attempted to keep her expression void of reaction. Snape opened the first door to their left and a dreary first impression met her sight. A horrible draft pierced her skin and she began immediately rubbing at her left arm again, only more earnestly. The bedroom was plain and near ruddy freezing. The wallpaper was crumbling and torn in spots, as though the daunting idea of stripping it bare had been abandoned to its ruin. A single bed in the corner, a square, wooden nightstand beside it, and a writing desk that was too small to belong to an adult were angled along the opposite wall closest to them, along with a trail of dust on the nightstand that confirmed to Hermione that this wasn't a regularly occupied room.

In fact, the room looked like it has once belonged to a child, leaving Hermione with the impression that it might have possibly even belonged to Snape, but she wasn't about to ask; now was not the time for such analysis.

Hermione suddenly felt drained of energy. _The tea_, she pondered briefly. _Laced with a Sleeping Draught, perhaps?_

Her heavy-hooded eyes trailed to a duffle bag that suddenly emerged on top of the bed, and Snape called out behind her, his hands latched firmly behind his back, "There are a few items of clothing there taken from your flat."

As Snape had already informed her yesterday that his men would be ransacking her place, this wasn't all that surprising. _At least he had the decency to bring some of my own clothes_, she considered as she turned around to face him, his imposing figure swallowing up the open doorway. He stared back at her for what felt like an eternity before those black eyes finally tore themselves away.

"Sir, is there a clock in here—"

"You're not to ask questions, remember?" he snapped, whipping his head around with a fierce sneer before supposedly thinking better of it. His sharp features eased at catching Hermione backing up against the bed, regressing to that of a skittish child rather than the capable adult she had grown into; or, at least, had once been. "In any case, you won't need one," he answered more gently. He drew himself upward and grabbed ahold of the door handle, ignoring the befuddled, albeit sleepy, gaze Hermione wore. "I will summon you at noon. I've been up most of the night, so I would like to sleep for a solid few hours."

Hermione watched him spin on his boot and disappear out of her room in a sea of black robes. Again, she sensed the wards upstairs shift and turn, aware that she was, in all likelihood, being enclosed within the confines of this room. Not that she would have been foolish enough to try leaving—yet—but the tension in the atmosphere was most unsettling as she plopped herself down on the bed, trying to process all that had transpired in the past day.

Merlin, how overcome with exhaustion she was...

_Definitely something in the tea._ She yawned and made to shuffle through the bag on her bed for something to change in to. _So, this really_ is _my new life_, she reflected with sadness, pausing to peer down at her left arm, the outline of 'Mudblood' and her new numbers staring back at her like a stinging hex to the heart. _I'm no longer a free person. I'm a slave. I'm the property of Severus Snape!_

_Breathe, Hermione. Breathe._

* * *

Hermione awoke with a start and nearly tumbled out of bed. A ringing was going off in the room—an invisible alarm—that shook Hermione from sleep and sent her arms grabbing helplessly at thin air. She threw off the covers, leapt out of bed, and covered her ears to block out the blaring noise, though to little avail.

"_What the bloody hell?_" she cried out and clutched her chest. Her shaky knees fell back onto the bed once she realized what the noise was.

_Oh. Right. Snape's house._

After a near minute or so, the ringing finally ceased, leaving only the thrumming drum of Hermione's excited heartbeat. She had slept so soundly, considering where she was, and with the current state of things being as dismal as they looked. There wasn't much time to mull over that curious detail, however.

Hermione swallowed her trifling awareness of her surroundings. 'You won't need one,' Snape had informed her regarding an alarm clock the night before.

"Arse!" she huffed, and moved quickly to dress herself for the day.

She scrounged about in the duffle bag in search of decent clothes to settle into, having discovered the previous night that whomever Snape had sent on the errand to her old flat had merely thrown a string of mismatched clothes together without consideration for corresponding socks or garments, not that Hermione was at all surprised. She had been far too knackered at the time to complain. However, she certainly _now_ wished she had her fuzzy slipper socks instead of the three or four thin, mismatched cotton pairs in her possession, seeing as the room was so poorly heated. More heavy layers to dress in would have been preferred, too, but Hermione shook such false hopes from her mind.

_You don't get to choose anymore, remember? You have no rights now. Consider yourself fortunate to have clothes at all._

Gulping down the horrifying idea of being clothes-less, Hermione hastily made do with dressing herself with what she had. Under Lord Voldemort's new reign of terror, she could only hope she wouldn't be made to work naked to add to her shame and humility. It may be wishful thinking, but then, Hermione didn't know what to expect from her current employer. For all she knew, Snape had a secret kink for watching his former students bend over, revealing themselves entirely to him for his viewing pleasure, whilst scrubbing down his floors or dusting his shelves.

Hermione shuddered at such imagery, though she wasn't sure if it was revulsion or intrigue that accompanied the peculiar tingle that shot down her back.

Locating a pair of old jeans and a red jumper that now hung loosely rather than conforming to her once-curvy figure, Hermione tousled her frizzy bed hair and eyed the bedroom door. She remembered Snape mentioning that _he_ would summon _her_ at some point today, but then a natural urge made itself known to the witch, much to her dissatisfaction. _Of course, I'd have to wee now._ Hermione hadn't considered asking before whether there was a loo on this floor that she was free to use, or if she was even allowed to leave the confinements of her bland bedroom without permission for that matter, but now? _You're not_ supposed_ to ask questions, remember?_

After waiting several agonizing minutes, Hermione decided it was better to take her chances than risk a possible whiz on Snape's hardwood floors. She suspected a cross Snape wouldn't appreciate that, so she would readily take her chances.

Hermione crept to the bedroom door, taking a deep breath as she tentatively reached for the handle, her hand hesitating for an angst-ridden moment. She knew the wards had been secured before she fell into a deep slumber and wasn't foolish enough to not think on what might happen once she pried open that door.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob. Nothing.

Sighing with relief, Hermione slowly turned it clockwise, earning a worn out creak as the door opened to the drafty, abandoned hallway. Mollified further when nothing terrible transpired, Hermione chanced stepping into the clearing, and not a sound greeted her ears. Frankly, it was almost too quiet for her liking and immediately set her nerves on edge. She quickly darted her eyes about the darkened space in search of the room she needed.

There were two closed doors on this floor farther down the hall, one on either side. One undoubtedly was Snape's personal quarters and the other, she prayed, would lead to the loo. The problem would be choosing which one. Hermione took several calculated breaths before she willed her unsteady legs to move.

As silently as she tried to tiptoe, however, her footsteps creaked fairly noisily. She winced but kept creeping along as silently as possible.

Once she reached both doors, Hermione halted in her tracks, hoping her furiously beating heart would slow. _What if you walk in on Snape? He'll hex you, surely, or at the very least hurt you in some way...won't he?_ Hermione had received enough threats to validate her concerns. Yet, in that moment, something deeper compelled her to sod it and be bold. Perhaps it was that Gryffindor bravado her House had boasted itself on for centuries, but Hermione was suddenly determined.

_Or maybe you really just need to wee._

Hermione shuffled her feet and decided she would risk trying the door to her left. She shakily reached out a hand to grab the doorknob and wiggled it. Unlocked.

_Then again, why would Snape lock his own bedroom door, if it's normally just him residing in this house?_

Hermione shook off the nerve-wracking tingle that pulsated down her arm and began to twist the handle. The door gave and opened a crack, but that was as far as she got. A hand suddenly flew out in front of her face and slammed the door shut with such force that Hermione toppled forward, nearly colliding face first with the door frame. She spun around and threw her back against the door, entirely caught off her guard by an infuriated and disheveled-looking Severus Snape looming over her with his contorted features mere inches from her own. His hair was rumpled and sticking up in the back, his trim body dressed only in a pair of wrinkled trousers and a white dress shirt, which was half unbuttoned and hung loose from his pants.

Hermione was too concerned with the wizard's terrifying expression to appraise much of the rest of him, though. She breathed rapidly as both of Snape's wiry, yet powerful, arms pinned her in place, each hand coming to rest on either side of the door frame.

"What do you think you're doing, Granger?" he intoned so softly that an unwanted shiver flew up her spine.

"I..." Hermione's cheeks flushed scarlet. "I - I have to use your toilet."

Those fierce, obsidian eyes held Hermione frozen to the spot as they scanned her ogling eyes, either with curiosity or derision, she wasn't sure. A stray hair hung in his eyelashes and against that sharply hooked nose, his mouth cast into an unbecoming scowl that sent a chill through every part of her body. He was stone still and barely moved his head; only those dark orbs of his roved over her without conveyance. It was a moment or two before he finally spoke.

"And who authorized you to go freely wandering about wherever you'd like in this house?"

Hermione's mouth slumped. "You mean, I... I can't even _relieve_ myself without your permission?"

Catching the anxiety riddled in her question, the edges of Snape's thin lips raised themselves. "That's right," he purred, and the danger in that baritone was duly noted.

Hermione didn't dare move. If she had gathered more stamina, she might have bitten off more than she could chew and retorted something back, but the witch's natural urges were growing steadily more desperate. She felt pathetic and weak, but now would be a foolish time to say something irrational that might cost her something as mindless as the permission to take a piss.

All Hermione could do was stare up into Snape's pinched face, seemingly so full of contempt for her, and plead silently for what she needed. Snape glared down his nose at her for another moment but, after what felt like ages, he finally withdrew his hands from the door frame and stepped back, allowing them both much-desired breathing room. He smelled like a combination of herbs, tobacco, and musk, and Hermione tried to rid her senses of his lingering scent at once by shaking her head.

"Very well," Snape consented quietly, swiping that single, loose hair away from his eyes. "Open the door."

What little relief Hermione had felt dissipated into utter confusion, but she did as Snape instructed her to, her nerves heightening when she detected his bare feet shuffling behind her as she walked inside the loo. The light switch was turned on, and Hermione found nothing particularly impressive about the wizard's bathroom facilities. There was a standard shower and toilet, and whatever traces that remained of some kind of yellow wallpapering that had evidently been peeling away, perhaps for decades. Either Snape was determined to let his home fall apart at the seams, if it could even be called a proper home, or... Hermione wasn't sure what else his rationale could be for leaving the place in such a poor state, but she quickly reminded herself that it wasn't her place to question or care.

Besides, the alerted witch was too preoccupied with Snape standing eerily at her back to ponder the bloody wallpaper. She turned around nervously to face him, finding that Snape still bore that disquieting expression from yesterday; it was almost intrusive, the manner in which he assessed her, although Hermione couldn't be sure what exactly he was thinking.

Snape's mouth tightened as he gave a decisive nod at her garments. "Take off your clothes," he startled her with his request, his agitation acutely relayed, even though his voice was quiet.

Hermione jolted in place. She opened her mouth to speak, but words escaped her grasp. Why was he asking her to undress? A terrible fear churned her stomach as Hermione set to fidgeting anxiously with the buttons on her jeans. Exercising trembling fingers, and, at the same time, too terrified to tear her eyes away from the dark wizard standing watch, Hermione slid out of her jeans and oversized jumper until she was left wearing nothing but a tatty, mismatched bra and knickers. She could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment and prayed that he wouldn't actually ask her to strip herself completely bare. No one had ever seen her _this_ exposed before—not even Ron, with all of their snogging and tugging and groping in the months following the Fall of the Light that had conveniently taken place in the dark.

Hermione's feeble hopes of not having to remove what remained were dashed by Snape's deepening frown and soft command of "_Everything_," emphasized with a disconcerting bite that made Hermione's throat tighten.

Sucking in a breath, and aware that she was shivering, Hermione clumsily sought to remove her bra and knickers as well, her lower lip quivering all the while. She unfastened her bra first, fumbling with the strap before she managed to undo it properly, and then she hunched over to remove her knickers.

Timidly, she stood up straight, now fully naked in front of Severus Snape—former teacher, Death Eater, employer. She had never felt more personally violated. Even if she weren't being touched, Hermione was being stared at—outlandishly—by the older force occupying the loo with her. If it were within her power, she would have gladly seeped into the tiled floor and disappeared.

Hermione made a feeble attempt to cover her womanhood, lacing an arm across her breasts to hide their exposure as well. She could no longer look Snape in the eyes and shifted her shame-filled direction towards the ground, chilled from such disclosure but also from being laid bare by _this man_ in particular, of all people. This prominent figure, who had once been her instructor and, so she falsely believed, her protector, even when Harry and Ron thought Snape not capable of possessing a shred of decency, now appraised her up and down in all of her naked mortification without a glimmer of guilt.

Now, Hermione was beginning to understand the boys' point of view...

It would seem those horrible rumors of nude Muggle-born slavery were true. At least, that's what Hermione at first surmised was being requested of her as Snape stepped forward to analyze her disrobed figure—so openly and without hint of sympathy. Those callous, black eyes seemed angry in their scrutiny of her person, but Hermione chose to focus on not falling prey to lost composure. Her trembling was growing worse, however, and the knot forming at the back of her throat made it difficult to keep her head.

Hermione expected Snape to touch her, perhaps even to hit her, or at least exercise _some_ demonstration of his authority in that moment, and, so, she waited with bated breath, staring down at his large bare feet and long toes. She tried to make a conscientious study of them, finding their boney anatomy rather elegant and aesthetically pleasing.

_You're naked, Hermione! Fully exposed, for Merlin's sake! What on earth is the matter with you?_

She blinked rapidly and tried to regain equilibrium of her surroundings. Snape was so close to her that she could detect the puff of his warm breath against her forehead. That enticing scent again, too, lingered in the air. Suddenly, Snape clasped a cold hand to her marked arm, causing Hermione to flinch and instantly try to pull herself free. She stared up at him, horrified, both unsure and puzzled by the expression she found.

"You're thinner than you ought to be," he stated quietly, his gaze sweeping down her jutting curves and back up to her stunned face.

Hermione had no idea how to answer. "I..."

"If you're going to work for me, Granger, you'll need to put on more weight." This time, his register was more normal-sounding and monotone. "I can't have you doing physical labor in the condition you're in. If you lose any more weight, you'll be of no use to me."

_How tragic_, she fleetingly considered, when it dawned on her that Snape had heard that very snippet inside her head. His jaw visibly tightened.

"If you _really_ want to die, there are much faster, more convenient ways of killing yourself."

Hermione didn't answer to_ that_ remark; she was bereft of words.

Snape reached his arm behind her to _Accio_ a bar of soap into his hands, as well as a razor that he tucked away into one of the pockets of his trousers. "This is yours." He dropped the soap into her shaking palm, his eyes never averting hers. "There's another that's mine and not for your use. You may, however, borrow my shampoo and conditioner."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, forgetting for a split second that she was entirely naked in front of him. Snape's attention drifted momentarily to the violent branding on her arm, however, and Hermione's focus shifted back to her uncomfortable exposure. She glimpsed the muscles in his cheeks flex and contract, the eyelids flicker furiously down at the mark, and, last of all, the calloused thumb that swept gently across her arm before it retreated.

The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stood up at that brief bit of contact; she wasn't aware that her heart had begun to race again, but she blinked away her shock and alarm quickly once Snape dropped his hand to his side and brought his eyes back to hers, bearing no expression of feeling in his assessment.

"I'll give you a half hour." His tone was sharp, though Hermione wasn't sure what she had done to offend him. "Clean yourself up, and meet me down stairs in the sitting room—in your clothes."

Hermione hardly had time to process what Snape instructed, for he glided away without another moment's delay, his tousled hair swaying off of his broad shoulders as he exited the loo. The slamming of the door rung in Hermione's ears for some time after he was gone, though her mind was entirely paralyzed after what had transpired.

She had been forced to disrobe in front of a man—_In front of bloody Snape!_—and yet, the only area he really focused on had been her branded arm. _How odd..._ Not that she wasn't grateful, for sure, but what on earth was she supposed to do with all of _this?_

Slowly, Hermione drew out of her troubled reverie long enough to turn on the shower and step into the tub, taking comfort in the warm water that lapped over her skin, and listlessly went about scrubbing herself raw. The reminder of those fierce eyes bore into the back of her mind the entire time she made to cleanse herself of their memory.

There was no denying what had happened. Snape had stripped Hermione down to nothing but her bare self, and yet, hadn't touched her inappropriately—well, apart for taking her by the arm but, even then, his grip had been surprisingly unaggressive, the way that calloused thumb seemed to comfortingly caress her blotched skin. Like an apology...

_Mental, Hermione. Positively mental._

Hermione drifted back to reality. The prickling sensation the mark had left made her scourge it hardest of anywhere on her body, but all the soap did was irritate the skin and turn it a bright shade of red. Ignoring the ugly term and numbers as much as she could, a perturbed Hermione lathered on some of Snape's shampoo and conditioner, numbed at this point to what she was doing.

Under different circumstances, perhaps she might have openly laughed at the fact that Severus Snape actually possessed a bottle of shampoo, and that she was _using_ his—the 'greasy git' himself—hair products. Hermione could practically hear the boys howling in her head, Fred and George in particular, but also Ron and Harry. It made her feel suddenly morbid instead of amused, though, thinking on what her dear friends might have said.

_'I thought the greasy git didn't own shampoo or conditioner!' Ron surely would have snickered. 'Look who's gonna have a whiff of Snape on their hands!'_

_'You go right ahead, Hermione,' Harry, too, would have baited and scrunched up his nose in disgust. 'It's probably laced with the man's own grease. No hair could get_ that _dirty all by itself.'_

_'You two are hopeless! If I let myself smell, he'll probably treat me worse. Would you like that?'_

_'Of course not, but, erm, we're talking about Snape, right? The man doesn't shower, 'Mione.'_

_'Yes, Ron, _Snape_, and actually... He doesn't smell half bad.'_

_'Well, in any case, Hermione,' she heard Harry warn delicately inside her head, 'the man might be feeding on your fears, so just stay strong.'_

_'But what am I supposed to do, Harry?'_

_'Whatever Snape asks, I'd wager. Don't do anything stupid; nothing I would do, anyway.'_

_'That's rich coming from _you_!'_

_'Harry's right, 'Mione. Be careful.'_

_'Listen to you two, suddenly all cautious and logically sound!'_

_'We don't want to see you get hurt, Hermione. You were always smarter than us, so don't go acting on instinct. Be careful and... And take care of yourself, all right?'_

_Ron snickered in that goofy manner that he always had in life, causing a sharp pain to form in the middle of Hermione's chest. ''Mione using Snape's shampoo. Bloody hell, who'd have thought the day would come when_ that _would happen?'_

Hermione was jerked out of her thoughts when the soap suddenly slipped her grasp, landing on the tub floor with a hard thud. Hermione scrambled to put it aside and hastily finished washing herself, unsure of how much time she had left to bathe and dress, and unaware of the tears running down her face.

It was only upon stepping from the shower and standing in front of the mirror that Hermione noticed how puffy and red her eyes were and that she had, in fact, been crying. _You're losing it, Hermione. Breathe._

Taking what little time she suspected she had left to dry her wet curls with her towel, Hermione struggled back into her clothing, took one more passing glance at her rumpled reflection in the mirror, and tore down the hall for the stairs, hoping she wasn't somehow 'late.'

Then again, Snape probably would have made_ that_ known to her already if she was, surely? Hermione found herself pondering that thought until she reached the bottom of the landing.

_He hasn't really harmed you yet, has he?_

Hermione detected movement out of the corner of her eye and, once again, startled at the gripping, though equally terrifying, sight of Severus Snape plodding towards her, his stark robes and ashen complexion disarming amidst so much darkness, emerging out of the shadows as though he were a mere extension of their contours.

To Hermione, the man had always been too pale to be alive, too ugly to be handsome, and too graceful to be human. He didn't stumble or stutter or strut like the average male, for that matter. No, Severus Snape was... Well, _unusual_ was putting it mildly, but he _was_ unlike any wizard she had ever encountered before, even amongst the most dangerous of wizard kind, and _that_ was saying something.

Snape's words rolled off his tongue like honey, and yet, were so cutthroat when he saw fit to insult that they left one iced to the bone. His nose was, by all accounts, too large for his face, and yet, the refined shape of it seemed to perfectly suit him. He moved so effortlessly and tread so lightly, barely making a sound on the creakiest of floors, that the act itself was practically nonhuman.

Hermione reared back as the dark wizard approached her, uncertain of his present mood, though whatever form it took, she surmised that it wouldn't be pleasant. He gave a firm toss of his head, nodding towards the sitting room, and, instead of berating her as she expected him to, he simply motioned for Hermione to follow his lead. She did so most reluctantly, trailing into the dimly lit space with an angst-ridden uncertainty tugging at the pit of her stomach.

Snape swiftly turned around to face her, his shoulders set straight as he scrutinized her small form from across the room. He didn't request that she sit, so she didn't dare assume that she could.

"Now that you're dressed, there are a couple things we need to go over." Snape drew his arms across his chest, cutting the same intimidating figure he had since yesterday, and all the days Hermione had known him. "You're to ensure that tea and breakfast are ready by six forty-five every morning. On weekends, you will prepare lunch by noon. During the week, I will not be here, so you can see to your own lunch at the same time. Dinner is always at six.

"If you're hungry, I suggest you make yourself something in the kitchen now before you begin." Unsurprisingly, Hermione lingered in the room with a certain air of expectancy, as though awaiting Snape to formally dismiss her. To him, it was, again, almost impressive. She really _was_ clever, that obnoxiously bright swot. Annoyed with her lack of fortitude, however, Snape growled to drive home the point. "_Now, Granger._"

"Yes, Sir," she whispered and started to turn away, but not before Snape called after her.

"You'll begin your duties once you've finished. Eat quickly. I don't intend to wait on you long."

* * *

A light tapping at his office door, and Severus barely raised his head. He knew who was coming well before she made her presence known, and simply waited for her to shuffle in with barely a sound and shut the door, which re-secured his wards. The added Silencing Charm, however, was one of her own.

"Good morning, Severus."

Severus finally laid eyes upon the attractive witch standing opposite his desk, dressed in the finest robes she possessed that hadn't been sold to pay off the enormous debts her husband owed to several of their fellow Death Eaters. Her complexion was whiter than he remembered when they had last seen one another weeks ago, but it wasn't drastic enough to alarm him. Mostly, she had retained her healthy, if not slightly underweight, physical prowess, her physical stature no doubt brought on by all the brunt she carried these days for her entire family. Her striking blonde hair was pulled tautly into a regal-shaped bun, showing off her delicately high cheek bones and handsome face.

"Narcissa," Severus greeted with a curt nod.

Narcissa Malfoy's eyes made a quick sweep of his office before coming to rest on Severus. "I heard the news."

"Mmm. Any touch of news about me tends to circulate with the utmost speed."

The witch's lips quirked upward. "So it would seem..." Her hands came to rest upon his desk, her polished fingernails lightly tapping the wood, though she wasn't consciously aware of doing so. "I assume the Dark Lord is pleased with the decision?"

"Indeed, he is."

"I am glad to hear it. That's good news for us. For her, as well."

Severus gave a more gracious second bow, but said nothing. Instead, he awaited Narcissa's thoughts that seemed to be pressing like a great weight on her mind.

"Toulson and Dewhurst have come over to us. They are disgusted with the way things are run—"

"And are also scared shitless."

"True, but after my," she paused to rephrase her remark, "_interrogation_, I believe them to be trustworthy allies."

Severus folded his hands together in his lap. "And I trust your judgment, Narcissa."

Narcissa gave a silent acknowledgement of appreciation. "We'll need to reconvene sooner than we initially planned. Draco has recruited several more of his friends, as have Crowley and Jacobs."

"Very well. I shall see what I can do in two weeks' time, if that's agreeable?"

"It is."

To anyone else present, Narcissa's demeanor would have come off as polite but cold, for the smile she forced across her face was something equivalent to undisclosed pain; but Severus understood it well, just as he was far more perceptive of others' inner monologues than many of them were aware of themselves.

Narcissa's sky blue irises drifted towards the wizard's desk again; she seemed to be inspecting the mahogany wood as though it were something fragile, and silently gathered her next thoughts together.

"I am glad the Granger girl fell into your hands, Severus," she finally whispered after a pregnant pause.

Severus merely angled his head. "That was always the intention."

"Yes, I know." Her eyes slowly met his, and the intention behind their depths hardened a fraction. "Take care of her, Severus. My son may have been wrongfully hard on her in the past, but he's right, as are you. We need her."

Severus's silence conveyed something that satisfied Narcissa. Issuing a respectful nod, the Malfoy matriarch existed Severus's office, leaving the place without a departing word or indication of her return.

Once alone, Severus brought his elbows to his desk and heaved a heavy sigh. Tension was building on all fronts now, and the attuned Slytherin could sense the first possibilities of uprising with every fraying nerve in his body.

* * *

**A/N #2: Hmmm...**


	6. Servant at Spinner's End

**A/N: I apologize for the delay. I've been going through a bit of a "rut" writing-wise, but hopefully I'm turning a corner. However, to make up for it, I have a longer chapter for you again, which I would categorize as "contemplative," so be prepared...  
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**_Reviews really feed the Muse, by the way, so feel free to keep the feedback coming! I'd greatly appreciate it! A special shout out to all you lovely folks who already do so; it truly means the world to me.  
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**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Servant at Spinner's End**

* * *

Hermione's first weeks at Spinner's End were trying in more ways than one. Snape was a quiet, intimidating 'master'—a term Hermione accepted at face value, for she suspected there to be consequences if she didn't outwardly give the wizard the proper respect—and particular in how he expected her to cook and clean in his home. He was thorough in his expectations and didn't engage Hermione in much conversation, which she neither expected, nor exactly desired. The result was better than she expected.

Snape normally went about his business either at the Ministry or, when home, in his laboratory. Hermione wasn't granted access to that part of the house, nor his extensive library, where he spent the majority of his time pouring over tomes Hermione couldn't get close enough to read or scrawling at parchment for hours on end, writing what she knew not. He hardly acknowledged the witch outside of a curt nod in the mornings and upon his return at the end of the work day, but his former student quickly discovered how much she preferred it that way.

The more Snape demanded of her, or snapped at her for doing something incorrectly or not in the manner that the meticulous wizard demanded, whether purposefully or not, the more it became engraved into Hermione's brain that she was nothing more than a slave at Spinner's End. Like the abysmal numbers severed violently into her left arm, Hermione was a Nobody in this bleaker and far less welcoming Wizarding world. She hardly required the reminder at every turn and, thus, was grateful that Snape never saw fit to speak to her more than was necessary.

Therefore, Hermione threw herself into her duties, more as a distraction from the grim realities of what she had amounted to rather than out of any sort of eager participation. The need to satisfy and prove herself, however, was still buried deep within and quite difficult to cast out, even if what she was instructed to do consisted mostly of dull house-elf duties.

_You're a Mudblood, Hermione, remember? You mean nothing now. House-elves hold a higher status than you._

Hermione certainly caught on quickly to what it meant to be a 'Mudblood servant.' Her particular circumstances being slightly better than others, it didn't change the fact that she _was_ reduced to lesser than what she had once been—at least, in her mind. She cleaned, scrubbed, and dusted Spinner's End to perfection—without magic, of course—and all at Snape's beck-and-call. Even if his demands were on the quieter side vocally, Hermione understood well that there were rigorous standards to which she was expected to perform and uphold.

In a way, however, such high conjectures made fulfilling her duties all the more her focus. Hermione was secretly appreciative of this, too, for it often forced her to shift her attention back onto her duties themselves rather than her grim outlook. She was too often prone to letting her mind wander into dissection territory, and the subject that gouged so much of her scrutiny, as well as her time that wasn't spent meddling over her circumstances, was none other than her employer himself: Severus Snape.

Hermione found it odd, for one, that the surly wizard never stopped calling her 'Granger.' She privately appreciated that, since most Muggle-borns were commonly referred to by their numbers instead of their names. Snape was also adamant that Hermione address him as she always had, by 'Sir' rather than 'Master.' Although she tried forcing herself to come to terms with seeing Snape in such an unstinting light, apparently Snape himself had lesser ideas about being called such.

The one time Hermione had slipped up near the end of her first week was also the last. She had placed a cup of tea he had requested in front of his writing desk in his library, where he had been working well into the evening, not taking time for the supper she had spent considerable time making. When she referred to him as 'Master' in her address, Snape's head snapped up so quickly from his parchment that she heard the man's neck snap into place. His eyes pierced hers with such an infuriated glare that Hermione's mouth went dry on the spot.

"Don't _ever_ call me that again!" he spat menacingly.

From that day forward, Hermione made sure that she applied that rule. Naturally, the nagging curiosity triggering her brain around the clock was begging to ask why, and she had to bite down on her lip to prevent herself from blurting out the question. It didn't make any sense. Her master was like any other Death Eater, surely, and would naturally _prefer_ to be addressed by his higher authority, wouldn't he?

_After all, this is your life now, Hermione_, she bitterly reminded herself. _Accept it. For whatever bloody reason, you chose to live, and this is what you can expect from now on._

That didn't mean the overly analytical Hermione Granger wasn't puzzled beyond measure as to the peculiar manner with which Snape treated her, and it only grew more puzzling as time wore on. One minute, Snape was quietly forthright in his commands, requesting that she 'dust the mantle' or 'start on dinner.' Within the next breath, however, the brooding, moody Slytherin would turn on her like a cracking whip, snarling vehemently and reminding her that she could be 'sent off to another home' if he put forth the request before the Dark Lord. Wherever she would wind up, they both knew that Hermione would be treated with even_ less_ civility than Snape bestowed. The mere possibility was enough to shut Hermione down, even if she hadn't a clue what she had done in the first place to warrant Snape's wrath.

It was infuriating to assess the man's drastic mood swings, tip toeing on egg shells and trying to stay in his good graces. Yet, the gift of his silence more often than not allowed Hermione to go about her work undisturbed and without harsh scruple. She felt as though she was constantly astride pins and needles in Snape's presence, the result of which could be chill-inducing and, at the same time, somewhat...thrilling, once she came to better sense its comings and goings.

_Thrilling, Hermione? Get a bloody grip!_

One thing was certain, though: in all the weeks Hermione had spent at Spinner's End, Snape never followed through on any of his personal threats of bodily harm if she disobeyed him. Although she made a few minor blunders those first weeks and anticipated his outrage, to her utter shock—and relief—no such actual punishments ever came about.

Sure, Snape would snap and growl and be altogether forbidding—and excite Hermione's blood at the same time, much to her ever increasing personal disturbance—but he _never_ acted on his anger. Giving her that threatening scowl of his that both intimidated and secretly enticed her, for whatever disastrous reasons, Snape physically left her alone.

_Why?_ Hermione found herself pondering again and again, despite not really wishing to delve into the possibilities. _Wasn't that the way of Muggle-borns' masters and mistresses nowadays: to torture and regularly humiliate their slaves?_

Hermione knew of such inflictions well enough. She had become aware of them through regular hearsay and gossip months prior to her capture. So, why didn't Snape ever punish her on a physical level?

Then again, he _did_ show a queer way of reprimanding her when his established order _was_ disrupted enough. Despite his strange approaches to reprimanding his Mudblood servant, Snape wasn't without his share of discipline; only, it wasn't the sort of punishment Hermione anticipated. That spiteful tongue of his, which scolded her person and intellect whenever the opportunity presented itself, seemed the norm until a disturbance occurred mid-way through Hermione's second week at the wizard's home. It happened spookily fast one day as Hermione sought to clear off Snape's cluttered coffee table whilst he was out. A large accumulation of books were starting to put a permanent dent in the antique wood and, so, in the midst of dusting, Hermione removed the hefty tomes, placing them elsewhere in the room so that she could continue cleaning, and did not give the books a second thought; or as much as she could try. It had been difficult adjusting to a life without the escapism that books provided her, but Hermione's conscience consented to try to move past the physical and emotional pain as best as she could. As Hermione laid Snape's tomes aside, she recognized the titles as Dark Arts material and rebuked herself for foolishly picking them up without inspecting them first. For all she knew, one could have cursed her then and there in the room.

_You were bloody fortunate, you know that?_

Evidently, Snape thought so, too, for upon his return from the Ministry that evening, spotting that the books had been moved out of place, he flew into a rage, leaving Hermione to gawk like one of his humiliated students. She listened nervously as Snape sputtered and cursed at her for touching his personal possessions without his permission, and for being a "stupid girl whose smarts would've indicated that she knew better than to inspect a book before fucking touching it!" Hermione could tell that Snape was strung out and likely overworked, if his haggard appearance was anything to go by, but his lashing out, in her mind, was still untoward.

That was the first time Snape punished her, much to Hermione's stunned silence, though his manner of doing so was odd, and would be analyzed by the witch obsessively in the weeks that followed. Hermione was forced onto her knees and made to open her left arm so that the Mudblood mark and numbers showed clearly across her skin. Although she couldn't assess Snape's enraged glare anymore, for her eyes were facing the worn rug that she had swept clean only earlier that day, she could hear his arduous breathing close by. (She had discovered early on in her stay that Snape wasn't an occasional but an avid smoker, and wasn't sure if it was his anger anymore that made him breathe so strenuously or those revolting fags of his that made the house reek of stifling tobacco leaves.)

Hermione mentally prepared herself for something dreadful, believing Snape was finally going to unleash his force and dominance over her as he had been threatening to do since her arrival, but what followed made her clench up, not in horror but in confusion. The heavy weight of one of Snape's dragon-hide boots pressed down on her arm. Although it wasn't enough to crush her, he exercised enough force to make his weight uncomfortable. Hermione squirmed, particularly when nothing else happened for another minute or two, but Snape's clipped, "Don't move," forced her to keep still.

After what seemed like an agonizing period of silence, Snape finally removed his boot. Her arm was sore as she tentatively drew onto her knees to meet the man's maddened eyes, but otherwise, she was unharmed. Snape's nostrils were flaring, his cheeks were sunken in, and his complexion had drained of any natural colour. Yet, there was something else burning behind those tenebrous irises that reflected the wild flames emitting from the hearth at his side. Hermione presumed that ghoulish expression to be contempt or, at the very least, a severe dislike and averted her eyes from such open hostility. She stared, instead, down at her branding, which now held an indentation from the sole of Snape's boot, as well as an irritated redness that was tender to the touch.

Hermione never heard Snape drift out of the room, but she did detect those sharp-toed boots stalking down the hallway towards the kitchen, abandoning her kneeled form on his freshly purged floors without so much as a parting word.

_That was...odd_, had been her immediate reaction following the incident.

Little did Hermione know that it was to become the first of many similarly strange occurrences to follow, all of which centered around her unsightly mark, for whatever bizarre reason that escaped her grasp. Hermione tried to ignore the incidences, however, and press on but not without difficulty.

When Snape was around, he was hardly ever out of sight or earshot, and Hermione could sense the one-time spy assessing her every move, even, unsettling as it was, when he wasn't in the house; or, perhaps, she was simply becoming paranoid. His powerful wards were a constant reminder, though, that the witch was a prisoner in this home, not a welcomed guest. When Snape was present, too, those cryptic irises that shot through the darkest shadows of the home seemed to burn straight through the back of Hermione's skull, watching intuitively as she scrubbed the kitchen tiles, dusted the liquor cabinet until it was pristine, or washed the wizard's own clothes—he didn't have many, another revelation that Hermione found curious—by hand with a bucket of water and laundry detergent.

By the second month, Hermione had developed a firm handle on the duties expected of her, and found herself growing steadily numbed to her new life. It was only during the work week, and during those blissful nine or so hours when Snape wasn't in the home, that Hermione let her guard down a few fractions to openly mourn the loss of her freedom. She cried for what her life had been reduced to, reflected on the dear friends she had lost—mostly the boys—and let herself grow increasingly aloof to her grief as the long, trying days rolled into weeks.

Being left alone at Spinner's End during Snape's work hours turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It didn't escape Hermione's notice, either, that such a small favor illustrated a certain manner of trust on Snape's part to allow her free reign of his house, though, of course that, too, was within reason. The exceptions were Snape's library, as well as his laboratory and personal quarters, all of which were warded off, along with the entire outside of the house (unless he asked Hermione to bring him a spot of tea in any of those rooms, which was a rarity). With powerful deflection spells in place, well beyond Hermione's abilities to undo, it wasn't really 'free reign' after all, but she would take what blessings she had, nonetheless.

Hermione well understood that her former professor was giving her more access to his personal world than he was ever likely to be comfortable with. There was no wandering idly about or casual glimpses of Snape's extensive library collection, for instance, for the various wards prevented her from getting too comfortable in the dreary establishment that seemed perfectly suited for its forbidding inhabitant.

Spinner's End, too, seemed to be riddled by darkness, and not just because it was Severus Snape's home. Veiled, somewhat disturbing forces seemed to underline the rooms Hermione had no access to, pulsating and pressing on her whenever she drew near then, or felt a compulsion to acknowledge their presence.

Hermione learned the hard way how far such preventive measures for lurking carried during her third week when Snape presented her with a few tasks for the day: clean the loo from top to bottom, clean the hallway floors, organize the clutter in the pantry, and compile a grocery list. Snape threw on his traveling cloak and, as per usual, warned Hermione not to touch any of the books on the shelves in his library or anything on his writing desk. Even though Snape never left anything compromising lying about, Hermione thought the annoying repeated instructions unnecessary.

Not being able to pore over any of his book collection crushed Hermione more than she expected, especially in those early weeks. On that particular day, she had been entirely alone again in the home, which presented a perfect opportunity to peruse the rows and rows of thick tomes that teased and tormented her stimulating mind every time she passed them by. Evidence of the old Hermione yearned to hold the weight of a decent-sized book in her hands once more, to drink the knowledge held between the many delicate pages.

_Just one tome_, the vulnerable side to Hermione's conscience nagged, her thirst for knowledge reemerging from some deeply locked up part of her mind.

Hermione sucked in a thrilling breath and, after finishing with moping a portion of the hallway, chanced stepping into the library, not even thinking twice about the wards that were heavily in place. She thought she detected something audibly click as she passed into the room, but put it to the back of her mind and eagerly crossed the length of the library to the towering bookshelves lining the far wall. She had finally come close enough to the tomes that had goaded her for too many days!

Without a second thought, feeling excited and thrilled by the prospect that awaited her, Hermione reached for one of the bindings in front of her, tempting fate. _After all, what the hell do you have to lose?_

Hermione's greedy fingers wrapped around the closest book within reach and pulled it from the shelf. She was about to inspect the title properly when her hand suddenly clenched up, and her skin started to burn. Whatever dark spell that lingered between its pages and in the binding broke its hold with the creeping sensation of pain that shot through Hermione's hand. She instantly recoiled from the book she had barely managed to touch, letting out a piercing shriek that shook the very walls around her, and the tome plunged to the floor, hitting the ground with a severe bang. Sparks spurted from its pages, and Hermione scurried backwards out of harm's way.

The excruciating pain in her hand quickly took over all rhyme and reason, and Hermione began to howl at the top of her lungs. Her skin felt as though it had been shoved onto a gas burner and been made to remain there against her will.

Acting fast, Hermione stumbled out of the library and sprinted for the kitchen. Thinking like a true Muggle, she dashed to the sink and turned on the faucet, throwing her hand under the icy, cool water in the hopes of stopping the terrible infliction.

"Damn it!" she cursed when, unsurprisingly, the water did nothing to ease the throbbing pain; in fact, it was growing worse. "_Make it stop!_" she cried irrationally, sputtering despite finding herself alone and at odds with whatever dark infliction was upon her.

Hermione frantically searched the kitchen cabinets for something—_anything_—that might aid her affected hand, but there were no Muggle antibiotics (_Of course, Hermione!_ she would later chide herself) or healing potions stored anywhere within arm's reach. Then she considered that Snape's personal medical stores were likely kept under lock and key in his private laboratory across the hall. _Go figure!_ There would be no breaching those wards, unless she was barking mad enough to try. She was reaching that point of hysteria quickly without _something_ to remedy her burning hand, though.

The fiery sensation continued for well over a half hour, by which time Hermione had grown weary with crying and overusing her vocal cords. The pain reduced to a dull ache, but it wouldn't allow a now emotionally wrought Hermione from making any proper use of her right hand.

At a complete loss by now, and still whimpering from the infliction, Hermione wrapped her hand in a cool, damp cloth, uncertain of what else to do, and tried to carry on with her tasks. Tears streaked her cheeks as she tried to focus all of her efforts on performing what little she could manage with one hand, but the hot sensation was nearly unbearable. The flesh itself wasn't melting, which made its psychological effect even worse, for Hermione felt that her skin was on fire, but she could see no visible proof of it.

In the midst of organizing one of the kitchen cupboards rather disastrously, as her hand kept trembling and causing her other to falter, she was startled when the Floo grate ignited some forty-five minutes after the incident, and the echo of hard-pounding boots came barreling into the kitchen. With ears alerted to the wizard's presence, Hermione staggered forward, nearly colliding with Snape next to the refrigerator. He hovered in the open doorway, his robes swaying furiously behind his long legs, along with his wind-swept hair, a few strands of which settled elegantly across his left eye.

"What the devil did you do now?" he intoned at once, eying the cloth on Hermione's right hand with a narrow, suspicious-looking glare.

Hermione gulped and took a step back. "I..."

"I told you not to touch anything, _didn't I?_"

Hermione pursed her lips. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to carry out my duties, Sir, without touching or moving your things around—"

"_Don't argue the point, Granger_," he cut her off. His features slowly grew less acute at the visible pain tracing her face, but the black irises remained decisively cold as they stared her down. "I was alerted to one of the wards in my library going off earlier but couldn't manage to leave the office until now." He stepped fully into the kitchen, causing Hermione to stumble backward in order to keep a safe distance. Those knowing eyes of Snape's sought out her wounded hand again, this time with less severity than before. "What did you touch?"

Hermione bit down on her lower lip. "I... Um... One of your books..."

"_I know that_, idiot girl." Snape arched an eyebrow. "Does it sting?"

Hermione ignored the slight. She was in too much pain to care. "_Yes_," she confessed in a desperate whimper. "A lot. Pl - Please—"

"Then you were touching one of my Curses and Hexes collections, of course, _which I told you not to do_," he emphasized a second time. Then he let out a weighty sigh and extended a pale hand out to her, though Hermione skidded back again. "Granger, let me see your hand." Hermione's back pressed itself firmly against the counter top, causing Snape's raised eyebrow to arch higher, the crease lines around his mouth hardening with irritation. "How am I to assess the damage done to you if you won't permit me to examine your infliction?" His tone was frustrated but resolute. "Unless you'd prefer to remain in pain—"

"No, please!"

"_Then. Come. Here._"

Cautiously, Hermione hitched a breath and stepped forward, swallowing down the unexpected fluttering in her stomach as she unwrapped her hand for Snape to assess. Slender digits proceeded to brush against her own. She detected the sort of rough, yet warm, skin that comes from years of extensive potion-making. The care of such practiced, thin hands, however, was not altogether unpleasant, or even all that rough despite their blemishes.

Hermione let out a small gasp at their contact. Whether or not Snape heard, she didn't know, but she secretly hoped he hadn't.

Snape tugged on her wrist to bring Hermione closer and she silently obeyed, surveying his weary, concentrated brow whilst he, inter, examined her hand. Her breath caught again as those boney fingers physically grazed over the damage done to her inflicted palm. His hands were strangely welcoming, though Hermione didn't know why. They felt...safe, so she didn't recoil or pull away.

Unaware of Hermione's inner thoughts this time, Snape whipped out his wand and began muttering an incantation the witch had never heard of. At last, the pain in her hand subsided, bringing a sigh of relief from her upon its careful undoing. She tenderly wiggled her fingers, afraid that the euphoric sensation may only be short lived, but, to her utter alleviation, it seemed that Snape's anti-curse had done the trick.

Hermione's eyes nervously locked on his in an effort to express her thanks, but her tongue clamped up at the receiving of his troubled, pinched stare. Why was he looking at her with... Was it sympathy? Compassion? Something soft and, perhaps, even apologetic?

Hermione swallowed uneasily and nodded her head. "Thank you, Sir..."

"Don't," he returned, the bite and irritation in his voice entirely gone.

Snape's hands slipped from hers and fell to his sides, but the lingering warmth of those overworked hands gliding over hers was heavily engraved in Hermione's mind, much to her growing confusion. In an effort to forget his sensitive touch, Hermione squared her shoulders and peered up at him hesitantly.

"Can I fix you something to eat—"

"No," he cut her off, placing his wand back into his robes, "I must get back to my office. In the future, Granger, be more mindful of my warnings. I don't wish to waste any more precious time having to come home to see to a wound that could have easily been prevented had you shown more respect for my things."

"I - I didn't..." Hermione quickly averted a retort with a resigned, "Yes, Sir," and a bow of her head.

With that, Snape turned and started to stalk out of the room, when Hermione called out suddenly, stopping the wizard in his tracks. "Your books," she explained, "they... Every time I pass the library they seem to..." Hermione fidgeted and fell silent, to which Snape turned around and faced her directly.

"They aren't meant to be touched for a reason, Granger." His tone was surprisingly soft and bore her no ill will. "The Dark Arts are many and variant and exceptionally dangerous. Even their mere knowledge can be misconstrued as harmless. Unless you understand them fully, you cannot be expected to touch and read and experiment at will."

Hermione's eyes fell to the floor. "I'm sorry," she whispered dejectedly. "It fell out of my control. I had no intention of..."

"I know," Snape returned just as quietly, "and I will need to put heavier wards on my collection so that you will not be tempted again in the future."

Snape gave a silent nod and left the kitchen, slithering away as effortlessly as he had arrived. The Floo ignited for a split second, and then all of Spinner's End went still with the passing of its owner, the only noise Hermione could hear that of her own excited breathing. Her curious eyes stared down at her healed hand, now slightly trembling—the hand that Snape hadn't hesitated to caress to ascertain if she was hurt; the hand that had been vanquished of any pain without visible malice or disgust from the dark wizard who had healed her; _the hand that Snape had willingly touched._ His words may have been mangled with aggravation, but his electrifying touch and that gentle, albeit brief, expression that loomed behind the eyes had been quite..._different._

_You're losing it, Hermione. Breathe. Just breathe._

* * *

Severus ground his teeth together at the disruption of a light tapping upon his office door. His slits for eyes peered over just as the door gave way, and in strode Yaxley, wearing his usual smug grin and pristine, navy-colored robes. "Yaxley," Severus greeted with a curt nod. He took a whiff of the fag in between his spindly fingers before casting it out with a flick of his wand.

"Just checking to see how you're making out so far, Severus."

Severus's eyebrows rose. "'Making out'?"

"With that Mudblood bitch, of course," Yaxley sniggered, his mouth parting into a wickedly suggestive grin. "Potter's best friend? The last surviving member of the Golden Trio? How is it that _you_ lucked out snatching that fresh, young bint, whilst the rest of us got sloppy seconds and thirds?"

Severus's slim mouth twisted at an angle; he exhaled his remaining tobacco through his nostrils, his answer monotone in reply, "No one else claimed her, Yaxley."

"That's because _you_ beat us all to it, you sly devil!"

"I'd requested her shortly after the battle. It's not my fault that you and Mulciber weren't quicker to make a proper bid for the girl."

"Clever," Yaxley murmured, sounding deep in thought. He crossed his arms over his chest and assessed Severus from where he stood. "_And?_"

Severus was hardly in the mood for such mind games, but showing his annoyance would get him nowhere, he knew, so he settled for a tight grimace. "She's sufficient."

Yaxley snorted. "'Sufficient'?"

"She's been out of practice with using magic for over a year, Yaxley. Thus, she's able to complete tasks with fewer errors because of her Mug—Mudblood ties and familiarities."

"I see..."

Severus furrowed his brow, waiting. "Anything else?"

Yaxley's self-satisfying disposition manifested into one of displeasure so quickly that anyone else would have been ill prepared for it. Severus, however, was already ahead of the blond wizard's pitiful attempts to unnerve him and schooled his face blankly, with secretive enjoyment.

"That's not what I meant, Severus, and you bloody well know it! How _is_ she?"

The hand hidden beneath Severus's desk balled into a fist, unbeknownst to his inquirer. "She's a perfectly adequate _servant_, Yaxley, and _that is all._ She's not to my personal taste," he found himself adding through gritted teeth.

Yaxley shook his head and squinted, eying his fellow Slytherin over as he always did—with evident suspicion. "Yes... One can't help but wonder what your 'taste' actually _is_, Severus. Some are beginning to wonder..."

Severus's eyes flashed, his expression remaining a neutral mask of coolness, though his upper lip sneered in challenge. "I had no idea my sex life was so utterly fascinating to others," he baited, drawing himself up in his chair to stare the man down with full blown repugnance. "Pray, tell, Yaxley, what do they 'wonder' about me?"

Yaxley flicked his hair that was molded into one long braid off of his shoulder, unbothered and smirking with delight. "They say you're a pouf, Severus. That you prefer cock to pussy. Is it true? You know how the Dark Lord feels about poufs, of course..."

The two wizards stared each other down after that tantalizing remark in a pregnant silence. Severus finally broke it by cracking a devious smile of his own, one that stretched maliciously to two sharp, raven eyes. "Yes, I do, Yaxley," he purred coolly in response. "One can only wonder from _whom_ such droll rumors have derived, can't they? When I uncover who they are, I can assure you that his or her punishment with the Dark Lord will be..._severe._"

At this, Yaxley squirmed slightly under Severus's unwavering stare. "Yes, one can only imagine. Don't hex the messenger, Severus." He quickly cleared his throat and backed away towards the door. "Well, it's good to see your new Mudblood's proving 'sufficient,' as you so aptly put it."

"Yes... Will that be all, Yaxley? I'm quite busy at the moment."

Yaxley's smile disappeared, but not the sinful gleam in his eyes that only true Death Eaters could convey to each other. "Yes," he replied churlishly, "_that is all._ Goodnight, Severus."

Severus didn't acknowledge the blond-haired wizard's exit. He returned to the open file sprawled out on his desk, pouring over the information as though Yaxley were no longer present. It worked its magic, for Yaxley sputtered something heatedly under his breath—undoubtedly inappropriate, whatever it was—and shut the door with some force.

Once he was certain that he was entirely alone, Severus let out a shuddering breath of disgust. Of course that twisted, conniving bastard would ask after whether or not Severus had actually slept with his former-student-turned-servant. It was most grievously frowned upon in the Dark Lord's new society to sleep with a Muggle-born, the mixture of magical and non-magical blood now considered an outright abomination of the worst kind, the penalty of which was often several inflictions of the Cruciatus Curse. Such sentences were normally cast by the Dark Lord himself but in some more extreme cases, and if the Dark Lord was in a particularly unfavorable mood, the penalty could result in death.

Severus was well aware of the rumors elder Death Eaters were spreading about his sexuality. Unbeknownst to those blabbering idiots, however, it was a rumor Severus had already squashed to Lord Voldemort years ago, upon a summoning well before the Battle of Hogwarts ever took place. The rumors were an old hat at this juncture, but several members still did their best to bring as much trouble to the Dark Lord's closest adviser and right-hand lieutenant as they could.

At the time of that summoning, Lord Voldemort had bought Severus's humbling explanation about desiring a life of celibacy above physical pleasure; that sins of the flesh clouded the mind and that, in order to work for the Dark Lord to the best of his ability, Severus needed his attention entirely focused on his tasks rather than the dangerous, trifling temptations that were women. It had worked, and Severus was never questioned about his sexual appetite, or lack thereof, again.

The fact that the rumors still circulated, however, came as no surprise to the accused. Severus Snape had risen to a higher ranking of power than had previously been established during the war, and now that he was the Dark Lord's most trusted confidant, Severus posed a greater threat to the brothers and sisters beneath him than he had prior to their victory. Even without exercising that power to its fullest extent, Severus's influence upon the Dark Lord was clear to anyone with half a brain who paid attention. Thus, Severus took what little amusement he could deride from his newfound position of strength. How unabashedly paranoid his fellow Death Eaters had become since reigning victory. Severus exercised his ability to instill fear as he always had: with subtlety.

There were certain grants Severus would never initiate, however. For one, he vouched to himself never to go after any of the Death Eaters' families, particularly their children, unless the Dark Lord specifically requested it of him. Most of Severus's brothers' and sisters' intentions may not have been honorable—contemptible, in many respects—but Severus wouldn't dare act upon such powers unless outright instructed to. Most of their innocent children, many of whom had been in Severus's House and under his unbeknownst protection during his brief reign as Headmaster, didn't deserve such disgrace, nor harm.

With this new position of power also came great trepidation of the dark wizard's own: the notion of holding such unrivaled authority. In truth, it terrified him. Severus had never desired such a position in the past. It was a part of why he was so despised and feared by the majority, for the one wizard in their inner circle who least desired such unequaled control had been granted the highest ranking post of them all, only second to the Dark Lord himself. Severus Snape was virtually untouchable (though he never allowed himself to get that comfortable). After all, Lord Voldemort hadn't hesitated to kill him before. The psychopath 'regretted' that decision, naturally, but there was no telling whether that lamentation would continue, or for how long Severus's fresh bit of luck would last...

Most of the time, Severus felt like a man treading hot coals on his bare feet, still living on borrowed time. It was only a matter of _when_ until that luck would finally run its course. If he was too cowardly to take his own life, then he would push himself to the brink, until he could go no further. If there was a chance yet to fulfill the pact he had made to Dumbledore nearly two decades ago—to help them win this war, even if it had already been lost—then Severus would try his damnedest.

_Even if nothing comes of it._

Severus fumbled in his pocket for another fag. With a snap of his fingers, the cigarette lit itself, and he inhaled several deep puffs, exhaling the contents hard through his nose. He needed to calm his thoughts, and smoking was one of the few unfortunate habits he had picked up long ago to do just that. The Dark Lord frowned upon it, so Severus made a point of never exercising that one indulgence in front of him, ridding himself of the smell before ever stepping foot before the Lord Voldemort's presence.

Severus rubbed wearily at his forehead and sunk his chin into his hand, peering absentmindedly at the paperwork awaiting his attention. It was evening and time to return home, but he wasn't much looking forward to retreating to Spinner's End tonight. Not any more, what with the Granger girl sharing such close quarters, intruding upon his personal space.

_You opted to save her life, Severus. Remember that?_

He was reminded of Narcissa Malfoy's gripping words not too long ago: _'Take care of her, Severus. We need her.'_

How pathetic at looking after the poor girl had Severus proved himself so far, though? He couldn't prevent an audible growl as he collapsed back in his chair, pondering his reckless decision to save the witch from otherwise certain death. The Dark Lord had been paranoid about capturing her, and understandably so, for she was a smart and capable Muggle-born witch who defied her lesser race, according to the Dark Lord. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on Severus's part to get Lord Voldemort to agree _not_ to kill her when she was found.

And now? The poor young woman was Severus's personal servant. How in the bloody hell was _that_ any better than the alternative?

_You forfeited her peace of mind by making her yours, you wretched fool..._

Severus inhaled a whiff of his cig and blew the contents out into the air, watching the smoke billow and curl before fading away into the shadows that lined his office. Had he been a dunce for saving her life? _No, surely..._ It was the right thing to do. They all had agreed with him on that. Like her fellow Muggle-borns, she deserved the chance to live, to wake up to another day, to see the possibility of these wretched, dark days renewed...

Yet, virtually everyone she—and Severus—knew from the Order and from the Light were dead. Those who remained mostly lived in day to day fear for their lives, falling so far from society that they existed barely above the poverty level. Half-bloods or more who had fought alongside the Potter boy were shunned and disgraced, forced into the lowest forms of survival: prostitution, smuggling, or addiction. Most, however, hadn't escaped the Dark Lord's manic rage following his victory and paid the ultimate price for their bravery and defiance: death.

Severus took a more forceful puff. He wasn't one to sympathize with others' plights. He wished he could do more for them, surely, but who the hell had ever offered _him_ a helping hand when all was gloom and despair and he had been in dire need? What had anyone ever done for _him_ in all his years of servitude to the Light, to others, to the 'greater good' Albus was always bullshitting about?

Nothing. Not a damned thing. Then again...

_How many people have_ you _actually managed to fucking save? Some do-gooder you are. Bloody hypocrite._

Severus sighed weightily and finished the remainder of his cigarette, his mind turning to that of the witch who would timidly greet him upon his return home: _Hermione Granger..._

He had never cared for the girl much, that was well established. She had been an overly ambitious, nagging, desperate-to-please thorn in his side for many years, later harboring insecure emotions for an insolent chap, who, as far as Severus was concerned, was far less worthy of her wit and intelligence than she gave him credit for; but that wasn't of any particular concern to him. She may have been an over-thinker and relied too heavily on books to give her the answers she craved, but Hermione _was_ highly capable—_Oh, yes_—and far brighter and intuitive a witch than many of her peers combined, including Potter.

_Merlin's arse, if she hadn't been around to help save Potter and Weasley countless times over, they'd have died much sooner.  
_

Severus hadn't wished to bear such resentment towards Hermione since she came under his charge. After all, she was living under his roof _because_ of him, so how could he fault her for being his priority? It hadn't been her bloody decision. The problem staring the troubled wizard in the face and getting under his skin was figuring out how to move forward with what he had forced her into, and what she did not know: a binding contract that tied her fate to his.

Sure, he could make things easier for her by referring to the witch by her name, treating her like a human being instead of a mindless animal, and providing her with shelter, provisions, goods, and what limited protection he could provide. She might never see his efforts as actual charity, but Severus couldn't blame her for overlooking the less-than-obvious, considering his bad temper; but how was he to convince her to trust him?

Hermione Granger could only clean so many nooks and crannies of his dusty, miserable house before she would grow tired of what she had been reduced to, weary of her mundane duties, and snap or lash out against him at last. In fact, Severus had been waiting on that moment for some time now, surprised that it hadn't yet occurred.

_She's fragile, Severus. Immensely fragile. She's so close to the edge._

Severus's mouth slumped further. What good exactly had he brought the poor witch by bringing her under his watchful eye?

_Nothing, Severus. Absolutely nothing. You knew that from the start. Narcissa's a blockhead for thinking you could make a difference, and so were you for believing her. You_ are _a damned fool._

* * *

Hermione sat silently on the couch, sipping her tea which, yet again, had a strange, bitter taste to it that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She naturally had her suspicions as to what the tea was laced with, not that _that_ made taking it any easier. It had been weeks since she had first been forced to drink it nightly before being dismissed, and with less civility than she preferred. So far, the tea hadn't shown any lingering physical or mental side effects, which cast the possibility of poison quickly from Hermione's mind, but she had knocked sense into that silly bit of paranoia rather disastrously.

_He's not out to harm you, Hermione. You sense it. You feel it._

Such a nagging reminder prickled Hermione's conscience. She tried to focus this night, as she had all the others, on swallowing the daintiest sips possible, fully aware of the monochrome-clad figure situated across from her next to the roaring fireplace, appraising each calculated sip with silent evasiveness. Snape, too, was drinking from his own cup, though critically studying the young witch over the porcelain china, never uttering a word but leaving the Gryffindor increasingly unnerved by his unabated, quiet scrutiny. If he was aware of causing her discomfort, however, Hermione suspected that the man wasn't about to reassess his behavior.

Snape's curiosity over this changed Hermione Granger, cast into a post-Harry Potter glow of darkness, without a compass or a friend,—like him—weighed heavily on the wizard's solitude. Hermione, on the other hand, probably hadn't a clue how greatly her welfare affected him.

_Typical blind Gryffindor; but how can you blame her, Severus?  
_

Snape had expected to encounter a much more combative Hermione in recent weeks, but, with the exception of occasional snippy comments to his requests, she had gone all but mute. He often caught her doing her utmost to bite back her tongue, though, usually when he was at his sourest and putting her in her place—in not so uncertain terms—but Snape had been bracing himself for some time for an eventual outburst of _some_ kind, a fiery, vocal testament to the mighty lioness she had proven herself all those years ago in battle.

Evidently, that Gryffindor had mutated into a silent obeyer, making Snape increasingly wary of the results. Was this _his_ fault for driving her to such wretched acceptance?

_Surely, not. This started before she came here.  
_

Nevertheless, _this_ Hermione was far more taciturn, performing her duties without much scruple or complaint. At least, not any longer, and it was worrisome.

Internally, Snape had convinced himself that Hermione was surely struggling with this degraded form of existence. How could she not? The world she had hoped to restore was no more. She had only gotten a mere taste of such oppression whilst on the run, but now she was getting a bitter mouthful of it with each passing hour, day after day, week after week.

_These combative tactics of yours will continue to solve nothing, Severus! Somehow, you need to find a way to reach her.  
_

Suddenly, Hermione interrupted Snape's analysis, her voice meek and ill confident. "Sir?"

"What?" he replied rather scathingly, more than he had intended to. He set down his tea on a side table next to his chair.

_You really ought to work on that, fuckwit, if you have a prayer of getting her to trust you._

Hermione had placed her own cup and saucer back on the tray. "What are you giving me?"

Snape blinked, surprised at Hermione's unexpected challenge. She hadn't asked him a question in nearly a week, and seemed to be anticipating his negative response, for her body went stiff as a board and her hands coiled tightly around her knees, apparently awaiting his wrath to come down on her like whips and chains.

_Always waiting..._

Snape took a slow, deep breath and decided to ignore her rule breaking, much to the witch's shock. "A Sleeping Draught," he replied, sounding bored with her inquiry.

Hermione didn't respond for nearly a minute, although her body language eased somewhat once she surmised that she wasn't going to be punished for speaking out of turn. "Oh..." she whispered, surveying her mostly unconsumed tea through a furrowed brow. "May I ask _why_ you're giving me a Sleeping Draught, Sir?"

Snape's mouth twitched. He disliked how formally she addressed him whenever she spoke, even if they had never been on good speaking terms or remotely friendly with one another. It was so obviously forced, unnatural, and especially unlike _her_ that he didn't care for it one bit; but there was nothing to be done about _that_. Why should that bother him, particularly when he used to expect her to address him with such respect in the classroom setting?

_Probably because you don't bloody well deserve it!_

Snape grunted and rubbed unconsciously at his chin. "It helps me sleep more...soundly. I figured you'd desire the same, Granger."

Hermione's puzzled eyes lowered to her knotted hands. Her left hand slowly drew over top of her right, tracing the lines of her palm—the one that Snape had mended only a few days ago. He noted her throat bobbing up and down, the few attractive wrinkles along her forehead disappearing as she relaxed, undoubtedly due to the potion laced in her tea.

"I wanted to thank you again for mending my hand the other day," she spoke out delicately, executing her words with caution as her eyes settled upon his face, "as well as for continuing to call me Granger and not..." Her hands switched and the right began rubbing at the mark on her left arm. She swallowed down the emotions creeping up the back of her throat, her eyes drifting towards the fireplace instead of the hard outlines engraved on Snape's face. "Well, I thank you, Sir, all the same."

Snape was certain the expression he bore was disingenuous, though he didn't mean it to be, but when he found himself complimented, his face tended to scrunch up, giving the impression that he was appalled or put off by any shred of decency or kindness, both of which he seldom received.

"You needn't thank me, Granger," he replied stiffly. "You were the one who made a fool of yourself by not heeding my words about not touching my things, remember?

"As to your name, it is who you are, is it not? I see nothing out of the ordinary in calling you what I've referred to you as since your first year."

Hermione didn't reply for a moment or two, until her eyelids began to droop and her back slumped against the sofa. "But my branding..." Her words were slurred as she tried to get them out. "I assumed... That is to say, I..."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Granger?"

Hermione's eyes fluttered, fighting the wave of exhaustion overtaking her body. "Sir, may I...go to bed?"

Snape didn't answer, however. He merely nodded and watched intently as Hermione stumbled to stand but ended up slinking back onto the couch. Not soon after making her drowsy request, Hermione lost the internal battle. Her eyes crashed shut and her head settled against the cushions, her tousled curls sliding over her face to hide her profile from view.

Snape looked over the witch quietly, swallowing the remnants of his tea as he assessed her unconscious state. _Out cold._

Echoing a sigh into the quiet space, Snape set down his teacup and glided over to where Hermione now slumbered, completely unaware of the wizard looming over her, giving the witch his thoughtful attention. _What the devil are you thinking, Severus?_ he considered for all of two seconds before he bent down, scooped a weightless Hermione into his arms, and cast out the crackling fire wandlessly with a turn of his wrist.

With Hermione's slumped body draped over his arms, Snape crept up the stairs, easily able to maneuver his way in the darkness. Hermione's soft breathing whiffed against his coat, which he did his best to ignore. Her head, too, bobbed loosely against his shoulder, her face turned upward as she dozed unabashedly in his arms, oblivious to his carrying her up to her bedroom.

Snape hadn't meant to let her fall asleep on the couch. Why he felt compelled to watch her fall asleep so that he could inconvenience himself with picking her up and tucking her into bed was beyond his mental frustrations, but he uttered no growl of annoyance as they rounded the corner to her bedroom. He whisked the door open by way of nonverbal magic, and the sheets, which had been made earlier that morning, tore backward of their own volition, allowing him to effortlessly lay Hermione down, fully clothed.

Working as diligently as possible, Snape drew the covers over Hermione's motionless, limp figure, his hand unintentionally brushing a handful of chestnut curls along her arm—thick and soft and not at all as bristly as they had once appeared. Snape's hand came to an abrupt halt, the hairs on the back of his neck rising to attention at the delicate feel of tight, soft spirals webbed between his long digits. He stared unreservedly down at them, lost to his own fascination, and began to twirl one ringlet around his index finger. It was...bewitching, for lack of a more appropriate expression.

_What the hell's wrong with you?_

Like an unknown switch that forced Snape to see reason, Snape suddenly came to his senses and rigidly withdrew his hand, giving the sleeping form of Hermione one last unreadable stare before he swept out of the room, springing for the door as fast as his legs would carry him.

The Sleeping Draught would hold, so it didn't matter that he had stomped his way back to his own personal quarters, his magic electrifying and his wards heightening at the all-consuming rage bubbling underneath the surface of that cold exterior he had perfected over the years. With force, Snape slammed his bedroom door and hastily changed into black pajama bottoms, crawling beneath his hefty duvet as though his very life depended on sheltering himself from his own actions.

Reclined against his pillows, Snape let out a burdensome sigh, and lit the hearth on the opposite end of the room with a flick of his wand. Then he tucked the instrument protectively beneath his pillow, forcing his eyes shut.

Was it blasted curiosity that had led him to carrying Hermione Granger to bed, then proceeding to play with a strand of her sodding hair?

_You_ _did_ _see her naked, you know. Perhaps _that_ has something to do with it.  
_

Snape's frazzled mind worked itself wildly over the taunting image that formulated behind his shut eyelids. It both horrified and enticed him, so much so that Snape squeezed his already closed eyes in protest, as if to mentally block out the sultry picture that twisted and warped and toyed with some underlying arousal within him; but it was hopeless. Snape's acute senses wouldn't allow him to cast the petite witch, with all her expansive, untamed curls, flawless, cream-colored skin and small, perky breasts, out of his rotten mind. She was other worldly in his imagination—uninhibited and carefree and filled with ridiculous longing by the way she gazed so lustfully back at him, brown irises ablaze with want, taunting for him to come to her.

_Absurd!_

A knot of guilt quenched Snape's chest as he recalled the prickle of tears that welled up in Hermione's eyes that morning he had requested that she strip herself naked; those watery orbs echoed of mistrust and fear for his unwarranted intrusion, her anguish and humiliation palpable. It thumped out that damnable, imagined gaze of seduction Snape had conjured up in his mind, leaving only self-reproach for the wizard to cling to in the dark of night.

"Fuck!" Snape cursed and turned on his opposite side, away from the door that led down the hall to where Hermione now slept comfortably, quietly, unaware of her former professor's unrighteous thoughts.

Snape focused all his efforts on a familiar drowsing technique that had aided him—somewhat—during the war, when sleep deprivation plagued him most nights despite the many sleep remedies he had tried: steady, calculated breaths that would, with any luck, eventually ease the hard lines marking his closed eyes and stern mouth.

At some point Snape's breathing evened out, though it took considerable time and effort; but a short sleep found him at last some time in the middle of the night. A Sleeping Draught didn't hold the same effect for the former spy as it would for Hermione, but, still, Snape drifted into a rhythmic doze, managing four healthy hours of uninterrupted rest before the routine night terrors began.

* * *

**A/N #2: There's lots brewing beneath the surface...if you know where to look. ;)**

***pouts towards Review Box* Pretty please?  
**


	7. Repressed Need

**A/N: There's quite a bit that happens in this chapter. And to all you kitteh lovers, the fate of little Moo is about to be revealed! (Told you that you'd find out!). ;)**

**_Thank you, as always, for your amazing feedback, favs, and alerts! Your reviews especially feed my slow-moving Muse these days more than I can possibly express. Feed him some more, if you'd please! _**

**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Repressed Need**

* * *

Hermione woke well before her alarm clock, feeling exceptionally well rested. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned, satisfied with the amount of sleep she had garnered. Perhaps Snape's offering that Sleeping Draught wasn't so terrible after all.

Suddenly, she frowned, trying to recall the events from the previous evening, but it was like snatching at thing air. Why were the details fuzzy?

_How did I get here?_

Hermione couldn't remember climbing the stairs to her bedroom, nor tucking herself in for the night. Then she realized that she was still donning the same clothes from the day before.

"What the hell?"

Hermione gingerly sat up and threw back the covers. Yes, she was indeed still in the same outfit as yesterday: her oversized jumper and jeans. She quickly sought to remedy that by pulling on a different jumper but continued to don the same pair of jeans. They were the only ones whoever had snatched her belongings thought to throw into her bag, unfortunately.

_Don't complain, Hermione. You could be forced to wear nothing at all, remember?_

Hermione shuddered at the remembrance of two listless, dark eyes inspecting her naked figure, though whether as something to be prized or despised, she knew not, and was glad to not be privy to the answer. Hermione had reflected on that uneasy experience at least a dozen times, more than she cared to admit. It was difficult to look Severus Snape in the eyes most of the time, being aware that he had glimpsed her clad in nothing at all. He was a dreadfully intimidating and unpleasant sort of fellow anyhow, so it wasn't trying for Hermione to avert her eyes...

Most of the time.

Hermione shivered at a chill that swept over her bare skin as she hustled to put on a grey-coloured jumper and a different pair of socks. Sunday was the only day she was permitted to do her own laundry, and she was already fresh out of clean knickers.

Hermione could hear the gust picking up outside her bedroom window. A few tree branches rapped repeated against the glass. She wrapped her arms around herself for what little comfort it might provide this morning and sighed as she slumped back down onto her mattress.

Following their previous startling encounter on her way to the loo, Snape had granted Hermione free access whenever she needed to use the toilet, provided she asked permission when he was in the home. A ridiculously small favor, to be sure, but one Hermione wasn't about to gamble on. She was surprised by Snape's 'leniency,' which, by any other standards, wasn't really lenient at all, but for a Muggle-born living under a Death Eater's roof, Snape's permissions were considerably tolerant.

As she slowly drew out of her sleep-like state, Hermione found her bleary mind wandering towards the wizard just down the hall. He _must_ have put her to bed, seeing as she couldn't remember doing so herself; she had no recollection of making her way up the stairs last night.

Hermione's imagination burst to life with suggestive thoughts of the prominent nosed, lank and black-haired wizard levitating her up the stairs, wearing that disgruntled sneer he always bore; or, perhaps, he had carried her?

_No, impossible._ A wizard like him wouldn't want to touch her. _And yet, he already has..._

Hermione shook her head, casting away the peculiar sensations creeping over her goose-pimpled skin. Living with the Legilimens over the past months had simply made Hermione a tad paranoid. _Yes, that's it!_ Much to her ever present anxieties, he had probably read her less than honorable thoughts a number of times without her knowing. Or did he have more respect for her than that?

Severus Snape certainly had a startling knack for deciphering her expressions easily enough—a trait he had perfected quite frightfully whilst she, Harry, and Ron were at Hogwarts. Granted, Hermione had never been the most persuasive liar, but even the way she caught him staring at her, with those mystifying depths that seemed to bore straight through to her very soul, left Hermione convinced that he was probably reading her deepest thoughts, even when he wasn't within eyesight. It nettled her greatly, but there was something else in those hypnotic black eyes, too; something provocative and exciting.

_Well,_ that _isn't at all disturbing, Hermione._

It might have been the element of danger about Snape that kept drawing Hermione in, despite his abrasive tongue, frigid stares and general surliness, but, somehow, despite his treatment of her, Hermione wasn't convinced that any harm would come to her under his roof.

_Yet, Hermione. Yet._

Hermione trembled as she opened her bedroom door and peered out into the noiseless hallway. Her soft footsteps creaked as she made her way towards the loo, and as she reached to turn the handle, she suddenly stopped, arrested by what she heard coming from Snape's bedroom directly across the way.

Cries. Aching, mournful cries. Shouts that pierced the air, beginning as low howls before growing louder and more harrowing by the second. How on earth had she not heard them before?

Without a second thought, Hermione crept across the hall to Snape's bedroom door. She may have never heard the wizard cry out before, but that voice was unmistakable, even as it clamored troublesomely against the walls, evidently seeking relief.

_Night terrors?_ she wondered. They sounded like them, and they weren't going away. If anything, they were increasing in intensity and getting worse. _Hadn't he taken a Sleeping Draught as well?_

Hermione panicked. Should she wake him? Surely, Snape's wards would be up; she'd probably get hexed in the process of trying to so much as twist the doorknob.

Whatever was going on, though, sounded terrible to her ears, like someone under torture, and Hermione was no stranger to those grim remembrances that her night terrors provided _her_ with before coming to this house. As much as she may not like Snape, no one, aside from, perhaps, the Dark Lord himself, if the evil louse even _had_ bad dreams, deserved to suffer through _this_, surely?

Hermione swallowed down her reservations about disturbing the man. No, she should go back to bed. _Go to the loo and go back to your room!_ If she startled Snape, what then? He might curse her, scream at her, or terrorize her for not obeying his commands. His threats about the consequences had been made clear ages ago. No, she should go straight back to bed, until her alarm went off, and ignore his cries; pretend she had never heard them. That was the sensible thing to do: avoid more unnecessary trouble.

_But then, you don't think he'd really hurt you, do you, Hermione? He never has, remember? Wake him up, for Merlin's sake. You'd be doing the poor git a favor..._

"_NO!_" Snape suddenly cried out in the darkness, filling the second floor with a frightening howl. Whimpering soon accompanied what sounded like mangled pleas to be put out of his misery. They caused every hair on Hermione's neck to stand on end, every nerve-ending running through her jolted frame to startle her out of her conflicting decisions. She could hear scuffling and tussling about beyond the door that separated her from Snape, as well as the persistent creaking of either the floorboards or Snape's bed. She suspected that the wizard was probably deep in the throes of his nightmares, tossing and turning as she so often did.

Hermione sucked in a breath, mustering some Gryffindor courage, and stepped forward, prepared to tap lightly on the door. However, a sudden shift in the air alerted her senses before she so much as made a noise. Snape's wards had gone off. Hermione could sense the tingling of magic blocking the doorway and was jerked backwards with a flash. She hit the door to the loo behind her with a tremendous thud and crashed to the floor, yelping as she hit solid ground.

If _that_ didn't wake Snape, she thought in a panic, nothing would. In answer to that panic-stricken thought, the floor suddenly creaked inside Snape's bedroom and, instantly, in all his ashen and sweat-laden glory, the bedroom door swung open and there stood Severus Snape across the hallway from her, staring down at the shocked witch, at first, in a daze.

It was then that Hermione noticed traces of red slashed across his chest. _Blood?_ Hermione flinched. She certainly hadn't expected to find the man bleeding.

Hermione groaned at the delayed throbbing pain that shot up her back at impact but was too nervous to move. She soaked in the outrage that settled upon Snape's face and pinned herself against the doorframe.

"I..."

"Granger," he hissed so low it was nearly untraceable.

Hermione stared back at him helplessly, her chest heaving. She could see it in those swarming, angry eyes of his: this morning was about to turn into a hellish one for her. In a fleeting moment of doubt, all good thoughts of the Death Eater not wishing her arm left.

_You were wrong, Hermione. Dead wrong._

* * *

Hermione was dragged back to her room by Snape's fastened grip. She could feel his fingers digging into her arm, conveying the rage pulsating through his veins as they swept back into her bedroom. She had disobeyed him by setting off his wards, and was going to pay dearly for her foolish blunder.

"_Just what do you think you're doing?_" he snarled through a clenched jaw, throwing her into the room so hard that she toppled straight into her bed and collided with a loud bang. He slammed the door behind him, and the sound reverberated eerily off the walls, matching Hermione's pounding heartbeat.

Hermione nearly fell over from the pain that hit her knees but managed to right herself. Her arm, too, throbbed from being manhandled, and she could feel tremors coming on but did her utmost to conceal them.

Snape drew several deep breaths through his flaring nostrils, his glimmering eyes fixated dangerously upon her. "Were you intending to overrun me?" The eminent threat blended in his voice was obvious, and caused Hermione to rattle backward, stunned.

"What?"

"_You heard me!_"

"No! I - I swear—"

"Thought you'd steal my wand and try to break free?"

"_What?_ I— _No!_ Listen, it wasn't that—"

"I mistook you for smart, Granger."

"I swear, I wasn't going to!"

"Then what other elaborate scheme were you plotting?"

"_What?_"

Hermione fell short of an explanation. Then her eyes widened in alarm at the peculiar sensation of her arms and legs being suddenly rendered immobile. Snape had nonverbally cast a body bind on her, preventing Hermione from so much as shuffling an inch. She wanted to cry out, to demand that he withdraw the incantation at once, but all she could do was manage a small, weak-sounding whimper that barely registered.

"That's better," Snape issued quietly, sneering as he spoke. He approached her in one or two strides, engulfing Hermione in shadow with his towering, wiry frame. Grabbing the mute witch by the jaw, Snape forced Hermione to stare up into his piercing eyes, his black irises reflecting her stunned reaction in their depths. "Listen here, Granger," he commanded with a certain authority she understood well not to cross, and without raising his voice, "any more attempts to enter my bedroom will result in a penalty far worse than a body bind."

Hermione was thankful to discover she could, at least, move her lips. "But I... I wasn't—"

"_Silence!_"

With that bark of an order, Hermione quickly closed her mouth. She sensed her body being levitated wordlessly into the air and collapsed onto the bed, still unable to move her limbs. She cringed as her back hit the too-firm mattress, and the covers were hastily thrown back over top of her. It only dawned on her then that Snape likely intended to leave her this way until her alarm clock sounded.

"Don't interrupt me again," he growled like an animal, staring down at her helpless form without pity. If Hermione could quiver under that unnerving stare, she would have, but, as it was, she was numb and couldn't budge. "You'll regret it if you do."

From this proximity, Hermione could feel Snape's warm breaths puffing against her cheeks, and his surprisingly soft hair brushing along her exposed collar bone. There was also that distinct, masculine scent of his that Hermione didn't find at all unpleasant. Most wouldn't expect to encounter such an enticing aroma from the 'greasy git.' Hermione had breathed in that scent many times before. It lingered throughout the house, on the furniture she dusted and in the air she breathed, causing difficulty at times for Hermione to concentrate, just as she fought to do so now.

That luring whiff of sandalwood, old parchment and ink, and herbs penetrated Hermione's senses. All of a sudden, she was having trouble breathing, and not because she was body bound with a dangerous Death Eater hovering over her, helpless and at his mercy. Something else was stirring...

"Are you going to leave me like this?" she blurted out as Snape made to move away from her. He stalled and came back to the bed, placing a hand on either side of her body, his wrists brushing her shoulders.

"That depends," he murmured, his tone quite difficult to read; she could only assume it was maliciously intended.

"On _what?_" she asked desperately.

"Your cooperation."

Hermione gulped, not following the wizard's meaning, but the manner with which he spoke wasn't encouraging. "'Cooperation'?" she repeated, to which Snape brazenly nodded.

"I'll judge how cooperative you _really_ are."

"I heard you crying out in your sleep!" she huffed, exasperated. "_That's_ why I made to knock on your door!"

Snape shot her a cross sneer. "I do_ not_ cry out in my sleep like some pathetic animal, Granger. You were hallucinating—"

"_No, I wasn't!_" she shot back with equal fury, only realizing that she had cut him off mid-sentence after the fact. She was swiftly reminded of her error when Snape's wand emerged from nowhere and pressed itself against her left cheek.

"Shall I bind your lips together as well?"

Hermione's complexion paled before his eyes, and yet, her heart was beating faster than ever and rather...excitedly. It had to be that damned purr of his combined with his rich scent. Both had been having a maddening effect on her in recent weeks, or at least causing Hermione to have irrevocably stupid thoughts.

She needed to get ahold of herself. He was looming so close to her that if Hermione lifted—_could_ lift—herself their bodies would touch. Every physical part of her wanted to squirm, too intrigued for its own good; it both alarmed and tempted her.

"Sir, I - I heard you crying out, whether you were sleeping or not. I heard it with my own ears, and you're - you're bleeding!"

"That's no concern of yours," he ground out between his teeth.

"Excuse me for being observant then!"

"Granger—"

"What do you feel threatened by me for?"

Snape reared back a little, struck and unnerved by that question. "I'm not at all 'threatened' by you."

"No? Then why all this secrecy? What are you so hell bent on me _not_ knowing?"

"Granger—"

"I'm your responsibility now! I live in your house! I have no rights, apparently! What do you expect me to do—"

Hermione gasped. In an instant, Snape's wand had been replaced by his opposite hand, which came down rapidly to pinch her jaw, calloused fingers pressing into her skin and making her wince.

"Be silent!"

Hermione gulped, speaking again through trembling lips, "I - I know you won't hurt me, Sir..."

Snape seemed nettled by such a presumption as his jaw visibly tightened. "I won't ask you again to hold your tongue, Granger. _Enough_."

Snape's grip around her face eased a little, though his hand continued to prevent her from moving her head, even as the rest of her could do nothing at all to push him away. Did she even want that?

_No... Closer_, her body urged.

"I don't care what your inconvenient reasons are for setting off my wards, nor your presumptions and daring to question me at length. You will _never_ do so again under any circumstances. Do you understand? Do not answer," he added with bite, "nodding will suffice."

Hermione quietly gestured her understanding. It was only then that Snape's hand finally fell away from her chin.

Her heart was still racing, though, as if she had been running a marathon. It was...thrilling, for whatever confounding reason.

_He didn't harm you, Hermione. Well, not really._ Her jaw was a little sore, but other than that... _That scent... Those eyes..._

Snape's weight lifted off of the bed, his arms withdrawing along with the rest of his thin frame to tower over the side of the bed. Hermione was no longer convinced of his attempts to intimidate her. Not now as she peered up at him. Suddenly, something in those colourless eyes looked heavy and worn down in a manner that had little to do with lack of proper sleep.

"Sir, could you please..." Hermione grunted and tried to tug at her arms to no avail, against every logical chemical in her brain that told her she was still body-bound, and couldn't move. "This is _really_ uncomfortable."

Snape seemed to ponder whether or not to release her of her invisible restraints as she, in turn, stared up into his weathered face, lost to what the moonlight trickling in from her window cast onto his sharp features. The mixture of light and shadows put every visible wrinkle and most of his translucent skin under dramatic spotlight, heightening their severity than what was present during daylight. What slashes of blood Hermione could make out across his chest had dried, but they were still horrifying to take in. What had happened to him? His cheeks were so sunken in that he resembled more a walking corpse than the powerful wizard Hermione had watched take down Professor Lockhart so seamlessly in her second year.

All was quiet and still, until Snape made his decision. He flicked his wand in the air and, at last, Hermione was freed of his body bind. The tension in her muscles melted away as she unconsciously rubbed at her arms and shoulders, groaning with relief at the release of tension.

Gradually, Hermione shifted to sit upright on the bed and glanced up at Snape through a pair of freshly timid, though still curious, eyes. Snape didn't miss the peculiar flicker that emerged; he had expected her to go off on a tangent or at least recoil from him, but she evidently wasn't afraid, nor disgusted. It didn't settle well in the pit of his stomach. His instant reaction was to harden his stare and brace his shoulders affrontedly.

"It's four in the morning." His voice was oddly strained for such a normally commanding baritone, and it didn't go amiss. "I suggest you go back to sleep. Expect your duties to be doubled for the remainder of the week as penance for your insubordination."

Hermione didn't retort or throw back an insult, though her mouth did fall open in annoyance. However, having her body able to move of its own free will again was such a blessing that she would readily not speak an ill word.

She watched Snape stalk out of the room and, even without the rippling, elegant cloak, Hermione had to hand it to the man: Snape could still cut a dramatic entrance _and_ exit without the entire billowing ensemble. Hermione heard his bare feet stomp their way back to his bedroom, as well as the heavy door slamming behind him, leaving a trail of anger that reverberated back to her bedroom.

Sighing with relief, Hermione sat at the edge of her bed in silence, unable to make herself move. The angst-ridden encounter she had experienced had not only been emotionally trying but also...strangely compelling. The man's cries of distress, as well the blood stains on his chest, were also troublesome, even if she hadn't any right to be concerned. The whole damned encounter boggled her mind, and Hermione absentmindedly began rubbing at her left arm again.

_You're pushing your luck, Hermione. What in the name of Merlin and Circe is wrong with you? Breathe._

* * *

Severus made a mental note as he tried to fall asleep later that morning: he would cast a Silencing Charm on his room at night from now, as an additional precaution, to ensure that that meddling bint down the hall would_ never_ detect his cries of pain again. Then again, she had proven herself bolder in the face of his aggression than even he had bargained for.

_What were you thinking, you daft fool? It was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn't it?_

In frustration, Severus vilently fluffed the pillow beneath his head and sought a more comfortable position. Of course the blasted witch would hear his ruddy screams of torment. No one was supposed to be privy to what happened in the sanctuary of his own room, in his own personal Hell.

_Careless, Severus. Far too careless._

So prone was he to the regular inflictions that fell upon him in the middle of the night, a mental goodnight gift from the Dark Lord to all of his faithful followers to remind them to whom they served, that he had been foolish enough to forget the possibility of Hermione overhearing him. Then again...

_I guess we'll need to remedy that Sleeping Draught. Obviously, it isn't strong enough._

A twinge of guilt plagued the back of Severus's mind. He thought he was doing the young witch a favor by mixing her evening tea with the sleep-inducing potion, knowing that at least _that_ might afford her a little bit of solitude, if only during the night hours, but the know-it-all had caught on quickly to his scheme, even if she had waited some time before conveying her suspicions. It probably wouldn't earn him her trust, that much was certain, but that hadn't really been Severus's focus either. He simply couldn't afford to have her making frequent, nightly trips to the loo, only to hear his screams on the opposite side of the wall as she had tonight. Even with a Silencing Charm, they were sometimes so great that they broke his wards.

The mere reminder of Hermione's intrepid words about what he had to be afraid of her for curled his upper lip. _Insolent chit!_ Something particular she had uttered, too, and with such credence played back repeatedly in his mind: _'I know you won't hurt me.'_

Severus squeezed his eyes shut. What the bloody hell did _she_ know? He understood that such conviction spoke well of his own underlying intentions, but that didn't mean what Hermione had said sat well with him. He had been trekking dangerously between two black and white worlds for so long that the rising paranoia seized Severus in moments such as these. Between Hermione's supposed self-assurance about his nature and intentions, the astute witch overhearing him in such a weakened state and having to approach both his 'servant' and the Dark Lord with equal caution and precision, Severus had had his fill for one evening.

_Damn it all!_

Severus was exhausted, worn with it all. Could nothing be simple anymore?

Furthermore, it was debilitating enough having his body wreaked havoc upon against his will, and to not have any control over numbing himself to the pain. Having someone else overhear was unacceptable. Merlin knew he had tried, and _still_ tried to combat the inflictions, but the Dark Lord had grown steadily madder since the early victory days following the demise of the Boy Who Lived. The more demented Lord Voldemort became, the more harrowing his curses grew, to the misfortunate of all.

No, Hermione Granger would_ never_ hear such noises from him again. Not as long as he had a say in the matter.

Severus's mind wandered to what he had been thinking on before being startled by the signaling of his breached wards...

_He had been hunched over on the ground, groveling at the feet of his "master." The Dark Lord, who stood before him in floating robes that barely touched the ground, with his inhuman, glowing red eyes peering down as unforgivingly as ever, twirled the Elder Wand in hand. Albus had been mistaken about the wand. It hadn't answered to Potter as the old fool had believed it would in the end and really held no special powers of which to boast. The Dark Lord, of course, didn't know this either, believing it further guaranteed his immortality._

What a fool_, was the only humor Severus could garner from the situation, and for his amusement alone._

_Severus was thanking him for his second chance at life—a second opportunity to fulfill a duty the deranged, half-wizard, half-monster had requested of him when he was still laid up in hospital. _

_Now that the Prophecy was complete, Severus was to take his place once more amongst his brothers and sisters, at Lord Voldemort's side. __Not that he had much of a choice. His other option was death, and having already experienced a brush with the Grim Reaper, Severus was content not to go back there. __Not now. Not yet._

Not while there may still be hope...

_Tonight, Severus had been granted the post of the Head of Law Enforcement and had been called upon to fulfill his pledge before everyone. Its former occupant was dead, which was of no particular consequence or importance to anyone. The wizard hadn't been on their side. He was a traitor to the Darkness, and his death had been a bother easily dealt with._

_"You will hunt them down, Severus," Lord Voldemort commanded in that eerie, snakelike hiss that could bring even the bravest of wizards and witches crumbling to their knees, all except his right-hand man; Severus would never allow it of himself. He had only bent one knee before the maniac tonight and that was all he would get. He bowed his head to conceal his disgust. "Every last Mudblood. You will seize them all and bring them before me to face their fates, if I so choose. You will report your findings to me, and I shall pass judgment upon them. They will reap the consequences of their filthy, unmagical blood ties. I leave the task of rounding them up to you."_

_"Yes, my Lord," Severus replied, seemingly without feeling, without care, without a hint of the nausea plaguing the pit of his stomach. He reminded himself not to be sick and retch at the Dark Lord's feet. It would earn him nothing save for humiliation. Severus's limp hair swept forward, the black wisps concealing the emotional turmoil that lay behind such inscrutable dark eyes._

_"This is the task I am appointing to you, Severus. They must all be accounted for, including the last Mudblood member of Potter's trio, that Granger bitch. She, too, must be found."_

_"It will be done, my Lord. Whatever you wish, consider it done."_

_"Do not fail me, Severus."_

_"I pledge to you my loyalty and dedication in this matter. I assure you, they will all be accounted for."_

_"Yes... They will."_

Severus shivered in his bed, despite the warm sheets bundled around his aching limbs and the welcoming heat emitting from the fireplace that encased the room with sleep-inducing warmth. The curse upon him had ended some time ago, but Severus's stiff body yearned for further relief. His bloodshot eyes wearily opened to the soft firelight filling up the room. He hadn't quite fallen asleep yet; his mind and suffering body were still too heightened to rest.

_'I know you won't hurt me.'_

Begrudgingly, Severus raised himself onto his elbows and propped his pillows more upright against the headboard, wincing as he did so. He stared across the room into the crackling hearth, and gradually became lost in his thoughts. His drooping eyelids, however, remained half opened, never fully closing, even as the hypnotic flames called to him to shut them, if only for a few minutes.

There was so much to do. So much to be done. How was he possibly to succeed?

"Albus, you set me up for failure before," he muttered into the stillness. "This time, perhaps,_ I_ have set myself up for defeat..."

* * *

Severus raised a dubious eyebrow. "What is the meaning of this?"

"He was in her flat."

"Your point?" Severus pressed with irritation as he inspected the furry creature pawing lightly at his parchment.

"What was I supposed to do? Just leave it there to fend for itself?"

"That would have been the general idea, Snow; or have you made it a habit of picking up strays with four legs because you feel particularly..._affected?_"

"Oh, come off it, Snape! Don't be such a heartless bastard. The poor thing's helpless; it surely would've starved if I hadn't taken it in."

Severus raised a skeptical eyebrow at the woman, Romilda Snow, a thirty-something witch with short, vibrant red hair that stuck out in every direction. Lanky, though not particularly tall, she was dressed in a trench coat and heavy boots, swaying back and forth with her hands placed reprovingly on her hips. Her feisty attitude and kooky antics were off putting to most, but Severus found the witch rather refreshing—well, most of the time—when compared to the more sinister company he was forced to keep. To her credit, Romilda was performing impressive undercover work for their cause, and serving Severus well in her unknown capacity.

"Then what is your intention of bringing it to _me?_" Severus demanded, exasperation seeping into his voice as he stared down the black and white-spotted kitten in their mists, giving the creature a confused scowl it didn't comprehend.

"Because I can't take care of it, that's why! Not with constantly hopping about the country for _you_."

"And is that supposed to garner my sympathies?"

Romilda issued a dramatic snort and rolled her auburn eyes, which were accentuated by her fiery red locks. Something in the witch's nature tended to remind Severus too much of Tonks at times, though Romilda was older, with slightly more smarts and general balance than her late counterpart. _Thank Merlin's arse!_ At least she was resourceful, persuasive in matters where it counted, and less clumsy.

"No, but it should provoke a twinge of compassion for the poor thing," she snickered at his expense, quirking a prodding eyebrow.

"I'm not a cat person," Severus confessed, feeling rather stupid. He related so through a decisive sneer, inching backward when the kitten came to rest in the middle of his desk. It stared up at him vacantly, its tail whisking lightly back and forth on his parchment, oblivious to the offending ink streaks it left.

"Awww, see?" Romilda baited, much to Severus's dissatisfaction. "He likes you!" The dark glare Severus projected in return was enough to reign in the witch's mirthless taunts. "Why not give him back to the girl then? She can take care of him, surely?"

"And that won't read _at all_ as suspicious!"

Romilda frowned, befuddled. "Don't you _want_ to earn her trust, Snape?"

"That is none of your concern, Snow."

The clear warning in Severus's tone forced Romilda to raise her hands in defense. "All right, all right! Duly noted. Well, what else can I do with it?"

Severus sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting to keep his composure in check. After a long, stress-filled day at the Ministry, and a subsequent meeting with the Dark Lord, his nerves were hanging by a mere thread. "You couldn't _possibly_ have found someone else in want of a damned cat?" he tried, knowing it was probably futile to resist at this point.

"No, Snape. When do _I_ have the time exactly?"

The kitten meowed and inched closer to the vexed, grumpy-looking man with the knitted brow. His whiskers gave a curious twitch and he meowed a second time, causing Severus to peer down at him, perplexed.

"What the devil does it want?"

"I'd imagine it's hungry." Romilda smiled as she twisted around to leave.

"What am_ I_ supposed to bloody feed it, Snow?"

"I don't know!" the witch cackled on her way out the door, trying to keep her snickering to the minimum as she cast a glance at the distraught wizard over her shoulder. "Ask that Hermione Granger! I have _your_ errands to run! Cheerio!"

Severus groaned as the door closed and, with a resigned sigh, fell back in his chair. His mind was preoccupied with a series of curse words when the tiny thing had the audacity to hop into his lap and paw at the buttons on his coat. Severus scowled down at the bold kitten, which didn't seem to dissuade the feline from proceeding to gnaw at a few of his buttons within reach.

"What in the hell am I to do with _you_, you maddening fur ball?"

* * *

The next few days proved dicey, indeed—at least, when Snape was around. By the weekend, the tension in the air was near breaking point. Hermione had quickly grown resentful of the wizard's ever elusive silence but also of the simultaneous spark that jolted through her hyper-sensitive body every time she caught Snape staring at her. If he was around, and he occupied the same space as her whilst she cooked or cleaned, Hermione found herself distracted and increasingly confused.

After all, she didn't necessarily need to be making eye contact to suspect herself of being ogled at from across the room. Was it her sickening Mudblood scar, which she still unconsciously scratched at on occasion, and for which Snape routinely took bizarre notice, or fascination, with? Was she doing something wrong and Snape was just waiting for the opportunity to shoot her down? More to the point, why wasn't she more perturbed by his quiet attentiveness? Perhaps her initial grief and anger had turned to a numbing, dull ache that she couldn't, as of yet, place.

_No._

Maybe her mind was protecting her, safeguarding her emotions away so that they wouldn't render her completely broken.

_It doesn't matter_, Hermione chastised herself whenever she felt some form of feeling rising up in her once more.

Hermione would go about her chores at a swifter pace, desperate to put some space between herself and the enigmatic, dark figure lingering at the back of her mind, hovering in the shadows and eying her as though he would either devour or strangle her.

_But he wouldn't hurt me_, an assertive Hermione somewhere inside clung to whenever she became anxious in his presence.

The following Saturday morning, Hermione set about making breakfast in the usual fashion—rising at six o'clock to have bread in the toaster and eggs on the skillet by six thirty. She rarely heard Snape descending the stairs. Sometimes he wasn't in his bedroom at all; on the weekends, he might rise later than usual, or, if he was already up, Hermione would often spot a light trickling from underneath the doorframe of his laboratory across the hall from the kitchen. She left the man alone to make an appearance whenever he saw fit to do so.

This morning, however, there was no light peeking through, so Hermione assumed Snape was upstairs getting dressed for the day. She had anticipated turning around to place his breakfast on the kitchen table when she was startled out of her wits by the surprising sight of Snape standing idly in the doorway, wearing his frock coat and trousers per usual, but with an almost dangerous glint in his eyes that Hermione couldn't place. For how long he had been standing there, she knew not, only that it rattled her so badly that she dropped the hot platter of eggs and bacon all over the tiled floor.

"Damn it!" Hermione cursed before righting herself. "I - I'm so sorry, Sir!" She reached frantically for a towel to clean up the mess. "I didn't see you there. I'm so sorry. I'll make you something else."

"Don't bother," Snape muttered flatly in return, watching the panic-stricken, curly-haired witch crouching down on all fours to make right of his ruined breakfast.

It was only whilst kneeling down that Hermione noticed Snape's black socks, one of which had a torn hole where his big toe should be covered. He was stock still and hadn't drifted out of the room, merely stood there, observing her crawling about in humiliation and nervously tiding up her mess.

At first, Hermione burned with embarrassment at being made to cower and apologize, but then an inner fire began to boil somewhere in the pit of her stomach, rising to her heaving chest and then to her flushed cheeks. Whatever rage was building inside of her had evidently been long suppressed, buried at the back of her consciousness, for, suddenly, Hermione found herself unable to contain her composure and trembled with fury.

In a split second of unmitigated irritation, and unable to withstand the harsh silence, Hermione threw down her cloth and drew onto her knees, narrowing her eyes up at Snape. "Can I help you with something?" she sniped, earning an arched eyebrow from the hooked-nosed wizard looming down on her.

"No."

"_Then why do you keep staring at me like - like - like I'm something to be devoured?_" she all but hissed, her frustrations growing despite her smarts.

Snape's eyes flashed strangely, and then settled themselves into slits. "What's it to _you_ whether or not I stare, Granger? I can do whatever I please in my own house."

"It's rude, _that's what!_" she snapped and crossed her arms, as if the point should be obvious.

"_Rude?_" Snape bore his crooked teeth, his mouth contorting in anger. "And you presume to think you have some kind of right to _not_ be looked at, Granger? To not be observed in a stranger's home? To not be—"

"I retain _some_ rights, you know!"

"Such as?"

"Not being bloody told to strip myself naked in front of you, for one!"

To Hermione's displeasure, Snape's raven irises danced provocatively at that remark. "You forget yourself, Granger. That's not a right of yours," he whispered. The manner with which he spoke made Hermione's blood run cold.

"Then what do you _want?_ Why do you keep staring at me, no matter what I do?"

"I can stare at you for no reason at all, if I so choose."

"_Tell me what I'm doing wrong!_" she demanded, her entire facing reddening before his eyes.

"I don't hesitate to tell you already whenever you've slipped up."

"Then tell me what to do to make this stop!" Hermione furiously picked up her towel, only to throw it back down on the floor in frustration; she could feel her entire upper body quivering. "If I can't do anything right by you that you feel the need to watch my every move, perhaps you should have me removed from your house!"

"Don't be an idiot, Granger—"

"I don't appreciate being gawked at—"

"_Granger!_"

"—like you're trying to look straight through my clothing!"

"I'm warning you—"

"_Like some revolting, twisted, sickening lecher!_"

Before Hermione realized what was happening, Snape had taken two steps forward, reached down, and dragged her rather effortlessly to her feet, his strong hands gripping her firmly by the arms. It took a moment for Hermione to realize she had been practically levitated off of the floor, as the soles of her shoes were barely scraping the ground. Snape had pulled their faces so close together that the tip of his exceedingly large nose nearly collided with her much smaller one.

Hermione was forced to stare straight into those mind-freezing, dark eyes that seemed to carry so much hatred for her kind, and could do nothing but hold her breath.

"Say one more word out of turn, Granger," Snape growled so softly it made her arms break out into goose bumps, "and I'll make you wish you'd never had a tongue."

Hermione had no idea where the courage rose up inside of her, or where the words stemmed from—perhaps some unit in her brain where all daft comebacks were stored for future reference—but the young witch craned her neck upward and snapped a "_Go right ahead!_" that left them both a tad jolted.

As soon as the words escaped her lips, Hermione's brain caught up with reality. She wasn't sure if she actually regretted provoking such a dangerous man, but seeing as the wizard had her pinned helplessly, it seemed a rather foolish idea in hindsight.

Hermione's face paled. She caught the surge of either vindication or abhorrence circulating behind Snape's eyes; they blazed in that unsettling manner that they long had, only more aggressively than Hermione had ever previously witnessed.

Hermione swallowed, uncertain of what Snape might do next. With one great shove, however, she found herself pressed up against the kitchen wall. Her feet were back on solid ground. A thigh was thrust hard between her legs and Hermione inhaled sharply, caught up short by his brash assertiveness. At the same time, something arresting—something attest to hunger—befell Snape's contorted face. Hermione's breathing quickened and her hands clasped his arms as hard as they could, sensing the graceful contours of surprisingly solid biceps beneath his coat.

Oddly enough, Snape didn't snap at her for touching him or demand that she let him go, but there was little opportunity to ascertain any of that, for the entire incident escalated quickly. Hermione nearly let out a yelp when Snape's soft hairs brushed against her cheek, his thin lips coming to rest next to her left earlobe. Warm breaths prickled her skin as he murmured a decisive, "You have no idea what you're asking for," into her ear, causing the witch to visibly shudder against him.

"I... I think I _do_." Her voice had gone weak and foreign.

A husky growl countered her remark. "You're naive, Granger. _Terribly, grossly naive._"

"You underestimate me," she bit back, regaining some of her former moxie. She tugged at his arms with what little physical strength she possessed; why the hell was she challenging him? Severus bloody Snape! She should desist at once, if she knew what was good for her. But that intoxicating scent, those heated breaths that whiffed at her neck, and that dangerously alluring purr of his caused Hermione to lose all focus.

_Oh, fucking well! _

Snape's next words sent a fierce tremble throughout Hermione's body. "Prove it," he challenged her, not pulling away but, instead, keeping his face firmly planted next to hers. His long locks hung forward so as to disguise those hollowing eyes Hermione could no longer see.

Breathing heavily, Hermione squirmed a little at the pressing heat between her legs and sending the rest of her body the wrong signals. His thigh pushed further against her sex, however, much to the witch's growing arosal. The more she wriggled, the better the friction felt against her worn jeans and Snape's slender thigh that seemed to mold perfectly beneath her entrance.

Then Snape sent another electric jolt through the flustered Gryffindor when he murmured into her ear, "Go on. Grind yourself against me."

Hermione startled. _Did he just...?_

As soon as the thought was planted into her mind, however, Hermione found herself unable to resist the urge she had been trying to smother and that the wizard had so boldly encouraged. She instantly heeded his command, dipping her hips slowly against Severus's warm thigh, the friction of heat and firmness between her legs feeling ruddy phenomenal. She couldn't recall the last time she had masturbated but, in that moment, all propriety and consideration collapsed. Hermione circled her hips to gain better sensation, dug her fingers into the fabric of Snape's coat, and shoved her crotch repeatedly against him, soon purchasing her feet at the base of the wall and pushing herself ever harder, upward and back.

It helped not being able to glimpse Snape's reaction all the while, but it didn't really matter, either. Hermione was suddenly lost to her natural urges, and Snape seemed to be reveling in it, or at least enjoying being the object of her desperate release. His breathing heightened as hers became undone, his face eventually falling back to watch Hermione's, to ogle her rubbing against him, her soft moans too distracting for him to ignore.

Hermione gave herself over to her compulsions without much of a fight and was full out humping Severus Snape's thigh. Merlin, she couldn't have given less of a damn.

Pulsating for relief, Hermione was vaguely aware of Snape's hand moving from one of her arms, her insides abruptly fluttering at the slip of slender fingers sliding beneath her shirt, prying their way inside her jeans to grope her sex through her moistened knickers. Somehow, he had unzipped her jeans without her awareness, or perhaps with the help of a wordless charm, giving himself easier access to her clit as she ground into him harder and harder.

A faint groan escaped the man's throat that caused a near violent tremor to spike down Hermione's spine. "Good girl," he murmured next to her ear; Hermione echoed his lust-filled words with a low moan of her own. "Keep going. _Make yourself come._"

Hermione whimpered when Snape's hand unexpectedly glided away from her crotch—more specifically, her aching nub—to grab ahold of her grinding hips; his opposite hand did likewise, aiding Hermione along as she humped him vigorously.

Hermione didn't need much encouragement, but Snape's quiet command rung in her ears, shivering through every part of her body, egging her on. Between a few rough, breathy whispers in her ear, growls of arousal from the former professor whom she had never heard in such a state before, and those bony digits caressing her lower body, Hermione was soon near violent with need, forgoing all thought of what she was doing.

Just before Hermione was about to cry out in climax, one of Snape's hands forcefully grabbed her left arm and snapped it back against the wall. Hermione started, pulled out of the thrill of the moment by having her arm pinned awkwardly against the wall. Just a moment before, she had been thrillingly riding Snape's thigh, panting to release her body of such oppressed urges. Now, Snape's ashen face was twisted towards her unpleasantly, the thigh between her legs abruptly collapsing and leaving the worked up witch empty and chilled to the quick.

Hermione was about to open her mouth and demand to know why the bloody hell he would pull away from her when she was about to bring herself over the edge when the expression marring Snape's brow brought her up short. An unsettling indignation swirled in those black irises, making the tension between them resurface like fire. He breathed strenuously through his nostrils and kept his lips braced together, his focus solely on her arm and not on her at all. He glared at her marking as though it were alive; so angry were his eyes that Hermione pressed herself harder against the wall, waiting with baited breath.

After what seemed like ages, Snape finally drew out of himself long enough to stare her down with another apathetic sneer.

"Wh - Why did you make me stop?" she blurted out, biting hard on her bottom lip; despite the tension, a persistent humming between her legs made her whole body throb with unfulfilled need.

Snape didn't answer. He squared his shoulders and simply released her arm, taking a step away from her. Cautiously, Hermione eyed the branding herself before appraising the seemingly aggravated wizard towering over her, bemused at his actions and embarrassed by her own behavior. Her breathing was still a bit ragged.

"Why, Sir?" she begged him; a muscle in Snape's jaw spasmed. "_Why?_"

Snape curled his upper lip in that same fashion he had used many times as her professor. "Because this is my house," he finally managed through gritted teeth.

That was all an explanation Hermione was to receive. Snape swiftly turned on his heel and flew out of the room, barking a "Clean up this mess," on his way down the hall. Feet creaked up the stairs and then a door slammed shut on the second floor, marking the tension with a stifling silence.

It wasn't merely Snape's odd behavior and then abrupt departure that left Hermione on edge, but the unappeased ache between her legs that wouldn't cease. Severus Snape had nearly brought Hermione to orgasm, allowing her to come to the brink of ecstasy and then, with utter cruelty, pulled back at the last moment. The result was like being doused with a cold bucket of water. Hermione remembered those fingers groping her sensitive clit for the briefest moment and shuddered from head to toe.

It was difficult to concentrate after the act, but Hermione mechanically snapped back to cleaning up the mess she had made earlier..._before Snape fastened you against the wall and enticed you to come on his leg. _

Hermione fumbled with the frying pan as she tossed it into the sink. Before she could even consider scrubbing it to a pristine shine, Hermione had to think. She peered down curiously at her left arm again, her eyebrows tapering together as they examined the unsightly branding that had settled into her skin months ago.

Slowly, her brown eyes lit up with a thought that was both highly befuddling and disturbing all at the same time. _He doesn't hate you, Hermione. He hates_ this_. He doesn't stare at you because he despises you. He despises the mark. But...why?_

* * *

**A/N #2: Happy Halloween! _  
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	8. To Be Appeased

**A/N: I'd post a warning with this one, buttttt I really don't like giving various plot points away, so unless it's something traumatic, i.e. rape or intense violence (the first of which you won't find in this story, by the way!), I'll keep any giveaways to the minimum. ;)  
**

**Longest chapter yet! And the wait may be a little longer for Chapter 9. I have _a lot_ of catchup writing and editing to do on this story, but hopefully what's to come will be worth the wait. **

**_Thank you in advance to any and all who review!_  
**

**********Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and ****own none of her associated characters. No money, just fun.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: To Be Appeased**

* * *

"Severus?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"How are you making out with the Mudblood?"

"Well enough, my Lord."

"Has she proved a problem for you at all? Defiant? Ill-mannered? Doesn't concede to your demands?"

"No, my Lord. Quite the contrary. In fact, she's been rather...submissive and subdued."

"She'd better be, or you know the consequences that shall befall that insolent wench. She's lucky to be alive at all. Don't make me regret that decision, Severus."

Severus bowed respectfully from his perch to the Dark Lord's left. He and other notable Death Eaters had gathered at the Ministry for their weekly meeting, where much murmuring and fidgeting took place when the Dark Lord wasn't calling Severus's brothers and sisters to order or making special demands—all except for Severus, who remained perfectly silent and still unless otherwise addressed.

Even as he sat with his head lowered, Severus could sense the reptilian's Legilimency pressing on his brain, but his right-hand lieutenant was prepared and offered up a series of both genuine and manipulated images to appease the Dark Lord's reservations and paranoia, from impressions of the witch scrubbing his floors to contrived moments of defiance in which Severus physically reprimanded her to the Dark Lord's placation, whether by beating or _Crucio_'ing her, until Hermione was withering and overcome by her master's control. He knew what extreme delights the Dark Lord would take in such gruesome visions, so Severus twisted and molded them accordingly.

Once he was certain of Lord Voldemort's approval, which was further confirmed by the maniac's snakelike grin, Severus felt it suitable to continue speaking. "Indeed, I do, my Lord. I reprimand her according to regulation, whenever she performs insufficiently."

"I am pleased, Severus. I trust she will break soon. Being best friends with the Potter boy has to have had a damaging psychological effect on her temperament, seeing as the traitors she fought alongside are now dead."

"I believe she is nearing the breaking point, my Lord."

"Then I am satisfied. She will be put down along with the rest of her kind, but we must take from these Mudbloods whatever perversions we can snuff out, and this one in particular cannot be dealt with lightly."

The maniac's paranoia was proving weightier and more affecting than Severus had initially predicted in recent weeks. It was pleasing, to be sure, though Lord Voldemort wouldn't suspect the dark wizard's pleasure by the empty expression he kept in place.

"The bitch is clever; that much is certain. You would do well to extract what you can from her before she cracks."

"Or force your way on her," Amycus Carrow mistakenly snickered to the entire group. Everyone in the room turned to the Carrow twin who had spoken out of turn, their eyebrows raised in shock. It was always ill-advised to even suggest cavorting with a Muggle-born, let alone to cast such a jest aloud before the Dark Lord himself.

Although no one else bore witness, Severus let a slight smirk surface for the briefest turn. Amycus Carrow was cracking at last under the immense pressure and paranoia the Death Eaters now heavily faced, and he seemed aware of the fact when his ragged face shrunk and his cheeks paled at the gravity of what he had just uttered for all to hear.

"My - My Lord—" he stuttered, raising trembling hands into the air.

"You disappoint me, Amycus," Lord Voldemort issued with unsettling calmness, one that the rest of the Death Eaters sensed was about to split into violence. "You do not, however, astound me as you do so your brothers and sisters with your loathsome gag. It has taken you entirely too long to finally disrespect me to my face so that I could, at last, remedy your ignorance."

"Pl - Please, my Lord, I didn't—"

"_Stand up!_" Lord Voldemort snipped with a deranged anger that contorted his withered face, or what was left of it.

The atmosphere had gone perfectly still as all the Death Eaters held their breaths—all except Severus, who watched the scene unfolding with disguised mirth. Things were falling into place far quicker than he had expected, or could have brought about himself; it was a deliciously encouraging sign, a fortunate turn of events he had been waiting on for ages.

Amycus sunk into the middle of the floor—a courtroom at the Ministry where the Dark Lord and his minions now regularly congregated—and shook violently under the heavy weight of everyone's stares boring down upon him, but most especially the Dark Lord's himself, who had risen from his high chair and raised his wand into the air, his red eyes triumphant and menacing.

"_Crucio!_" he cast with a wicked gleam, and the scrawny form of Amycus Carrow collapsed to the floor, high pitched wails and distressed shrieks filling the room and shaking the walls. It no longer took as long for any Death Eater to reach their breaking points under the Cruciatus Curse, as it a frequent favorite of the Dark Lord's, and the entire ensemble sat heavy with fear in their faces as they watched their brother, Amycus Carrow, wither under his torment.

The Dark Lord saw fit to torture his dedicated follower for some time yet, much as the late, unhinged Bellatrix Lestrange had delighted under his formidable command, though he didn't seem to derive the same maddening joy from its practice as his most dedicated female Death Eater had.

Before long, Amycus's body coiled in on itself, his mangled limbs contorting sickeningly under the burdens of the Unforgivable Curse. It was then that everyone in the room became aware that this wasn't going to end until the offending wizard was actually dead.

After an agonizing forty-five minutes of nonstop Cruciatus Curse, Amycus Carrow succumbed to the agony of his suffering, going limp and stiff as the life was sucked out of him by the offending curse. Once his trembling body stilled, a different wail echoed from the opposite end of the room, where Alecto Carrow sat rocking back in forth in her chair, her hands clawing desperately at her face. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying and watching her brother's painful end, knowing there was nothing she could do to prevent it. No one dared move to comfort the sniveling witch, however. To do so would have only enraged the Dark Lord, so her fellow Death Eaters sat quietly where they were, not one wishing to draw their master's attention.

Alecto shot up out of her chair and stumbled onto the platform, collapsing to her knees beside the lifeless form of her twin, her sobs uncontrollable and ripping from the back of her throat. "_What have you done? Why, oh, why?_" she kept shrieking over and over, overrun and no longer mindful of who she had the audacity to address in such an emotional state.

Lord Voldemort grew testy with the woman's public display and hissed vehemently from where he stood, demanding Alecto's silence. When she refused, only sobbing harder, the madman craned his neck, as though he were fighting off a pinched nerve, and raised his wand so fast that no one, aside from Severus, saw it coming.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Alecto crumpled on top of her brother with a crack and a thud, and the room fell silent and still, though Alecto's cries and Amycus's screams of pain still seemed to echo in the eerie silence around them, despite the fact that they now lay in a heap on the cold floor, dead at the hand of their master. No one dared breathe or utter a word, as the Dark Lord entertained himself by watching them all wince and squirm in terror under his brutal authority.

"Anyone else who chooses to speak out of turn again will receive a similar fate." With those chilling parting words, Lord Voldemort turned to Severus, who peered up at him without any trace of anxiety. "I will take anything of value you are able to get out of the Mudblood, Severus. Make sure that it happens soon. I don't like to be kept waiting."

Severus nodded his compliance. "My Lord is generous. I will."

* * *

Following Hermione's heightened encounter with Snape in his kitchen, the next several days were more tense than usual. Snape spoke to Hermione even less often than before, though their conversations had been considerably brief to begin with, and often retreated to his library or his laboratory as soon as he barreled through the Floo, rarely reemerging before it was time for evening tea and for Hermione to be relieved of her duties for the night.

His blatant dismissal didn't stop Hermione from noticing the countless times Snape returned home in a fretful state, dripping in sweat, sometimes clutching his left arm and wincing in pain, or trembling under the weight of what she could only assume was a physical ailment from his psychotic master. The first time she saw her former professor in such a manner that warranted medical attention, she hadn't been able to prevent herself from gawking, much to Snape's chagrin. He cast out her codfish expression with a few cutthroat words before retreating to his laboratory, not allowing Hermione to get a word in about possibly helping him.

Hermione made a point to be more discrete from then on, though every time Snape emerged from the Floo looking worse for the wear, she was reminded of the bone-chilling time she had happened upon the wizard crying out in the dead of night, screaming as if he were being tortured within his own bed chambers. She couldn't put that harrowing remembrance out of her mind, nor the occasional sight of her own 'master' returning home under such poor conditions. He didn't want her sympathy, that much was clear, or her aid.

_Put it out of your mind, Hermione. It's none of your business, after all; it shouldn't matter to you._

This peculiar chain of events only added to Hermione's growing hypothesis of the many strange occurrences that had happened since her arrival to Spinner's End, from her nightly Sleeping Draught to some of the more puzzling glances and brush of skin on skin contact they had had. Hermione had yet to experience another morning like the one in which she had awoken fully clothed, when Snape—_For who else could it have been?_—had brought her to bed, either by levitation or, seemingly far more unlikely, carried her up the stairs and tucked her in.

The possibility was never far from the back of her mind, nor was the recent incident that involved her rubbing her sex repeatedly against Snape's thigh, whilst that deep, husky voice encouraged her to come all over him.

_Put it out of your mind, damn it! What good will any of it do? You're nothing more than a slave in this house. Snape can treat you however he likes. He's probably trying to break you. None of it should make any difference at this point._

Hermione tried to make due and not dwell on her marking that seemed to so easily disturb the man, or how he hadn't hesitated to heal her hand, or assessed her naked in front of him and did not act on what, for most men, would have been dominant instinct.

_Then again, you're a Mudblood, Hermione. Perhaps he finds it revolting to touch you. No... He_ has _touched you already, and without hesitation at that. He practically let you climax on him! He bloody well encouraged it!  
_

Besides those harrowing noises Hermione had overheard that frequently played over in her mind, there were also those slashes of blood on Snape's chest, violent and unmistakable, as though he had been attacked. It was all most disturbing.

_But this is Snape, Hermione_, she reminded herself. _It's none of your concern. Why should you care?_

_Even if your branding, for whatever reason, bothers him—and it shouldn't—it isn't something you should even be thinking about. Not if he is who everyone claims he always was..._

_That_ dismal musing only made her reflect on Harry and Ron, and practically squeezed her heart in two. Hermione shook her head and tried to refocus, aware of the tears that had suddenly welled in her eyes.

One thing was certain, though: the atmosphere between her and Snape had intensified since that morning when Hermione had finally snapped and lashed out, only to find herself shoved up against the wall and weak at the knees. Hermione's own attraction was what conflicted her most. She shouldn't have been aroused; she _shouldn't_ have been so easily swayed and encouraged by Snape to do such a thing as to masturbate right in front of him.

_You mean_ on _him, Hermione..._

The remembrance of that zealous encounter caused her stomach to flutter excitedly. What on earth was this allure, this sick attraction? Severus Snape wasn't exactly an attractive man to begin with, and he was also her 'master' now—the sole individual who had verbally abused her in her youth to the point of tears. Now, he held power over her every move; over her very life. She couldn't so much as breathe without him snapping at her not to do so, if he so chose. So, why did Hermione feel compelled to study him to death and allow Snape to consume her every thought? What was the nagging pleasure that came at the most unexpected times, or the blind belief that assured her that no harm would come to her under the convoluted wizard's watchful eye, that he didn't loathe and despise her as his words might otherwise imply? Why did she _enjoy_ being touched by this dangerous, compelling enigma, and yearn for him to do so again?

_You've officially lost it, Hermione. Bloody hell. Breathe, and forget about it!_

* * *

Severus ran his hands down his face, scrubbing at his red-rimmed eyes with heel of his palms. Night had fallen hours ago, and he had an early morning at the Ministry, but sleep was an exclusive club that continued to elude him—the never-ending restlessness, irritation, and fatigue having become his nighttime companions, pulling at his tattered resolve.

_No matter._ He scratched his head with the tip of his wand, staring down at the concoction that had saw him working late into the night. The contents were turning a fiery auburn hue, which wasn't a good sign. _Marginally off. Damn it._

Severus's mouth creased into a critical frown. He extinguished the flames beneath his cauldron with a flick of his wand, and the contents soon turned thick and gloopy. The potion was ruined, but it had been a fail-safe attempt anyhow. He would have to ditch this newest effort and try again tomorrow evening; or this morning, rather, seeing as it was two o'clock...

A soft meow nearby stirred Severus's attention, and his weary eyes blinked towards the wretched little ball of fur that had somehow taken over his Potions laboratory. More than once he had returned to his sanctuary to find ingredients and his two storage units in complete disarray. The ever curious feline didn't seem to give a damn where he pounced or what he ruined, even as Severus went about slamming things back into order, peering down at the blasted creature with a rage normally afforded to his once dunderheaded student body. The kitten would simply meow back and be on its merry way.

Severus hadn't informed Hermione yet that he had taken in her cat, expecting that that opportunity would be afforded soon. Thus far, he had been bringing the spotted kitten scraps of food left over from meals, and the feline seemed to be taking well to its new surroundings. Severus had grudgingly gone as far as to charm his laboratory with heating spells so as to keep the helpless thing from being too cold.

Presently, Moo was occupying himself with the fringe of a shabby pillow Severus had extracted from his sitting room couch, which also acted as his bed. He quietly tugged and gnawed at the loose string, earning a disapproving roll of the eyes from his sole audience member across the room.

Silently, Severus tidied up his work area, casting phials into their properly alphabetized storage cabinets, utensils into their drawers, and his cauldron into a safe place out of reach. With the flames from his working cauldrons now extinguished, Severus found himself shivering from the brisk coolness that suddenly brushed his exposed skin. His body ached for warmth and relaxation, though he wasn't quite ready to return to the confinements of his bedroom yet.

Thus, the sleep-deprived Slytherin cast another warming charm into the room and resigned himself to his usual chair in the sitting room after ensuring that his laboratory was in top form to be left alone to the small feline's devices. Sealing the wards to keep the lab secured, Severus strolled into the sitting room and lit the hearth with his wand, taking a seat close to the grate and soaking in the heat that penetrated his craving limbs. His long legs stretched themselves out before the crackling fireplace, one ankle draped lazily over the other. His eyes, though exhausted, stared into the entrancing flames. His mind wasn't at all hypnotized or put at ease, however, as his slackened demeanor would have otherwise suggested.

Hermione Granger had been dismissed hours ago, and had trekked up the stairs to bed with a Sleeping Draught in her system. Severus had discretely eyed her ascending the stairs, paying particularly close attention to her tousled hair. It wasn't nearly as bushy anymore. Apparently, the witch had taught herself some helpful beautifying charms to make her curls less knotted and unkempt over the years, yet it still hung wild and free when not properly maintained. No longer being able to use magic had rendered her hair bristly once more, but it seemed that she didn't care much. What was the use in trying to glamorize herself? Her kind meant nothing in this new world, let alone held any desire to be ogled at or scrutinized...

_Not that that's stopped you, Severus. _

Severus remembered with perfect clarity touching one of those tightly-woven curls, and an electrifying sensation shuddered straight up his spine at recalling its soft texture, how it seamlessly twined around his index finger. He had clamped up and withdrew almost instantly, immersing himself in his work in the hopes of putting the Granger woman out of his mind. 'Out of sight, out of mind' had been Severus's plan of action at the time, but his attempts at forgetting the one-time know-it-all had been a vain effort, and proved utterly impossible for the past several weeks. The fact that she had recently displayed evidence of that inner fire again in his kitchen, which he had feared might have been blown out of her sails long ago, wasn't lost on Severus either. The spit-fire Hermione Granger was still in there—lingering, waiting; she wasn't broken yet, and it was a telling sign, to be sure. Most Muggle-borns would have cracked within the first weeks of their confinement, but not Hermione Granger. She was still solid as a pillar, if not slightly weathered around the base.

What troubled Severus most, however, was the incident that he had allowed and encouraged to transpire in his kitchen. He hadn't expected that of himself, nor of her. Why had he even felt compelled to pin her to the wall, to bring the witch to arousal somehow, or to slide his hand between her thighs and...

_No._

Severus visibly shook, as though he were experiencing a fit, and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to ward off the unsuitable thoughts dancing provocatively across his sight. His thoughts were suddenly smitten with entertaining taking the witch over his kitchen table and pounding her relentlessly until she came, his arousal steadily hardening at such a lured fantasy. Seeing the witch clawing at his back and screaming his name in ecstasy wasn't doing him any bloody favors, but it shot a painful reaction straight to his groin.

Severus's eyes shot open. What the bloody hell had come over him? He had far better control than this. He was above and beyond such vapid urges, such reckless behavior. He desired nothing, nor wanted anything, from Hermione Granger—only that her life be spared and that she be kept safe.

He had plans for her, of course. Plans to eventually—hopefully—make right of all the fucking wrongs that had cost so many, whilst sadly sparing him to see the aftermath and destruction of all he had fought against. Righting those wrongs included Hermione, but that was the extent of it, as far as Severus was concerned. He wasn't supposed to start lusting after her like some dirty, doddering, old fool. What on earth must she think of him?

_Why the hell do you bloody care?_

Severus gnashed his teeth together and rubbed at his forehead, fighting the sodding erection between his legs. The bright flames enhanced the tired lines on his face, showcasing his sunken cheeks and the heavy bags beneath his eyes. How dour, how macabre, how _old_ he most look to her now...

_Go to bed, Severus. You cannot possibly think on this anymore._

Severus slowly raised himself and stretched, letting out a long, burdensome yawn before dragging his feet up the stairs, his boots barely making a sound on the creaking steps. His hard on had started to fall—_Thank fucking Merlin!_—and he continued to ignore the prickle of interest that reemerged as he passed the sleeping witch's bedroom, pausing for the briefest moment to eye the door before moving onward to his own room.

_Do what you must for the witch. Leave the rest well enough alone._

* * *

"Sir?"

"What is it?" Snape snapped, though not having wished to. His eyes peered up from the top of his _Daily Prophet_, having only gotten around to reading that morning's newspaper in the evening. He projected an expecting, arched eyebrow towards the witch who was hovering at the edge of the room, holding a tray in her hands.

"Tea," she replied simply, and set the tray down on the coffee table.

The crease of Snape's newspaper fell forward, revealing a suspicious-looking frown. "I always make the evening tea, Granger," he answered in a monotone voice, but Hermione could detect the trepidation buried beneath the words.

"You seemed rather preoccupied with your reading material, so I took the liberty of—"

"You're never to take liberties in this household," he spoke over her, his eyes flashing their disapproval.

"My apologies," Hermione replied, gathering the tray in her hands again. "I won't do it again."

"Put it down."

Hermione froze, her eyebrows coming together high on her forehead. Snape let out an exasperated sigh and curtly nodded to the tray she still held between slightly trembling fingers.

"I said, 'Put it down,' Granger."

Timidly, Hermione obeyed but remained where she was, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and awaiting Snape's response to her acting out of turn. He quietly rose to his full height, dropping the newspaper into his chair. Hermione took a tentative step backward, but mostly found herself compelled to stand her ground. She had a feeling this would get a rise out of the man, but it was just the sort of risky, opportune moment she had been seeking in recent days.

"What are you playing at?" he whispered, his question forcing a perplexing expression across Hermione's face.

"What am _I_ playing at?" she found herself hissing back. "What are _you_ playing at more like?"

Snape blinked, taken slightly aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"What was that display all about in the kitchen last week?"

Snape's upper lip curled defiantly. "'Display'?" he repeated, the mockery in his tone setting Hermione on edge. "Surely, you mean your _own_ imprudent display, Granger?"

Hermione turned a brighter shade of red. "You threw me against the wall! You - You said in my ear—"

"You acted on impulse, no doubt."

"But you said—"

"_So what?_"

Hermione balled her shaking hands into fists. "What's this all about, Snape? Why are you lacing my tea with a Sleeping Draught?"

"Granger, I already told you—"

"Why did you make me strip myself naked in front of you? To further humiliate me, or were there more incongruous reasons you had in mind, _Professor?_"

Severus's eyes narrowed into slashes. "Just what _exactly_ do you think you're implying—"

"Was that incident in the kitchen simply to shame me? Embarrass me? Belittle me further? You needn't have bothered, you know! I already am humiliated!"

"I'm not going to justify that with a fucking answer!" he snarled but was cut off once more, this time not by Hermione's words but by her actions. She threw up her left arm to display the harsh branding that was so savagely etched into her otherwise smooth skin and Snape went stark still, not so much as blinking as those mysterious-looking eyes focused in on the mark.

"Why do you keep eying this as though it's something to be abhorred when_ you're_ the one who indirectly put it there in the first place?" Hermione pressed quietly, staring up at Snape's peculiar look, her own eyes desperate for answers.

Snape came up short at the witch's quick-thinking, sharply placed question. How was he to explain himself? How far had he let things go? How unperceptive had he truly been when it came to Hermione Granger? She wasn't a damned fool, he knew that for sure, but he swiftly realized that _he_ had been thickheaded enough to believe his attempts at subtly would go unnoticed.

Snape's thin mouth clamped shut and his arms, which had begun to reach inside his robes for his wand during their escalating row, suddenly drifted to his sides. He appraised Hermione's mark in painstaking silence, a slow and agonizing moment of tension passing between them as the seconds ticked away.

Finally, his dark eyes fell back to hers, and for the first time since being brought to Spinner's End, Hermione discovered something she hadn't expected hidden behind the wizard's glacial expression: fear.

His cheeks turned a shade whiter. That knowledge-hungry expression that Snape remembered well from only a few years ago stared up into his face, unnerving him to the quick. To be on the receiving end of that look again after such a long absence, it took Snape a moment to find his voice.

"You think I seek only to ridicule and humiliate you?"

_That_ wasn't the response Hermione had anticipated, and her shock conveyed itself willingly. Slowly, her arm dropped to her side, her eyebrows coming together high on her forehead in confusion.

"What else should I think?" she returned his question with another of her own, only softer and less demanding than previously.

Snape paused, his voice laced with a familiar twinge of bitterness, "I thought you were perceptive, Granger. You used to be quite...circumspect, despite your highly obnoxious swotiness about anything and everything, which, regretfully, you seem to have retained after all these years."

"As have _you_ and your acerbic tongue," Hermione returned coolly before thinking better of it, adding a defiant, "_Sir_," at the end of her retort.

It was too late to take it back, though Hermione wished to Merlin and every other celestial being that she could have in that tense-filled moment, for the wild gleam that flashed across the wizard's colourless eyes caused her throat to constrict. She reared back, but not fast enough before Snape descended upon her. It took only one or two strides for him to grab her forcefully by the arms and lug her towards him in almost violent indignation. Then, to sharpen her befuddlement and shock, his body went stiff as a board, as though he was unsure of what to do next.

Hermione, ever uncertain of Snape's intentions, stared up anxiously whilst trying to keep herself composed, but her heavy breathing gave away her underlying nerves. Using the pause to her advantage, Hermione hastily spoke up, "I don't believe you wish me harm." She waited another moment, expecting Snape to cut her down with another brash remark, but all he did was stare intently down at her, unblinking and breathing strenuously through flared nostrils. Forging more inner courage, Hermione continued in a more steady tone, "I - I know you don't think much of me—you never have—but I don't think you're out to harm me either. I just... I just want to understand your angle; to know what the incident in the kitchen was all about, and the one in the bathroom. To know..." She peered down at her arm, biting down on her lower lip, and her eyes hesitantly drew back to his that were seemingly smoldering—with fury. "To know _why_ you look at my mark with such disdain...when you're one of _them?_"

_'Them.'_ The word had been issued so softly, with such delicacy as though she hoped saying it aloud might declare it untrue.

After a long pause, Snape responded in a low murmur, his jaw tightening as he said slowly, "You _always_ want to understand when the answers are right under you ruddy nose, Granger."

Hermione's eyebrows tapered. "I'm sorry?"

Snape flinched, though he kept his hands firmly wrapped around her small arms. "Forget what I said."

Snape started to draw back, loosening his grip on her at last, and Hermione reacted on instinct. She reached out and tugged roughly at his robes, pulling him back to her with a staggering strength that stunned them both. He hadn't expected to be grabbed so roughly, and nearly crashed right into her. Hermione's chest brushed against his, his hot breaths whisking her forehead and cheeks, but by some irrepressible force that Hermione knew not, she had found her footing, as well as her voice, and wasn't afraid to confront and push Snape to the brink. Not anymore.

In fact, even with his hawk-like features so close that she could make out his individual long eyelashes and thin, shapely lips that, if she merely raised herself on tiptoe, their mouths would collide, Hermione found she wasn't intimidated, despite the perturbed glare Snape projected down at her.

_He won't hurt you_, her mind reassured her, egging her onward. _Ask him._

"Tell me, Sir," she demanded in a quiet, though assertive, voice, grasping the stiff fabric of his robes, "what do you want from me?"

Snape's mouth twisted. "You're overstepping yourself once again, Granger. Back off." He bared his teeth in an attempt to unnerve her, and she knew it.

Hermione swallowed. Even if she wasn't fearful, she didn't trust Snape much more than she had only a few weeks ago, and had no idea where this new bout of bravery might lead.

"_What do you want from me? Say it!_"

"What is this, Granger?"

"I told you, I'm not afraid of you! I want answers!"

"_Oh?_" he provoked in a catlike purr, like a wild beast pawing at the ground before it leaps upon its prey.

Hermione's courage wavered a fraction or two. "No. I..."

"You _what?_"

Hermione raised her chin. "I'm not entirely convinced you are who you project yourself to be."

Severus cocked his head at that bold assertion, even if deep down he had grown nervous, and shot her an inscrutable stare. "Is that so?"

"Yes... I think... I think you're trying in some warped way to help me...but you don't want me to know it."

The sharp pang of Snape's fingers digging into her skin caught Hermione off guard, but also provoked her instincts. _I'm right! He's reacting poorly because I'm right!_

Snape sneered defiantly and leaned in closer, his hair falling forward, making his sharp features more menacing. "You know _nothing_, Granger."

"What? Afraid I'll give you away, _Sir?_"

"Hardly!" he snorted, but Hermione detected a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

"I have no rights, as you've so politely pointed out to me in the past," Hermione reminded him in a not-so-flattering tone; she didn't miss the understated flinch Snape's lips made, as though the mention of his actions personally stung. "So, why won't you explain yourself? Why are you hesitant to be direct with me? This is your house. I'm your property now—"

"You are _not_ my property!" Snape startled her by growling, giving her body a quick shove.

"_Then why do you treat me this way?_" Increasingly flustered, Hermione's fingers curled tighter around Snape's robes. "Are you_ trying_ to break me?"

"NO! I..."

"But if you hate me so much—"

"I DON'T HATE YOU!" Snape's exasperated words rang out, bringing their squabble to an abrupt halt.

Hermione blinked and stared up at him anew, her mouth falling open, not with shock but with relief. "You - You mean that?"

Snape didn't answer, though his cheeks had taken on an admiring, albeit infuriated, blush. In that moment, Hermione abandoned reason, deserted the answers she sought, and surprised even herself by raising both of her hands to the man's attractive cravat. Snape was ill prepared for this highly defiant person now brushing up against him and visibly startled, lurching backward but not quickly enough. Hermione raised herself onto her tiptoes and, like a tidal wave, her lips collided—purposely—with his, leaving Snape's eyes to widen in amazement.

The shock that convulsed through every nerve in Snape's body made him immediately wish to recoil, but as soon as Hermione angled her mouth just so, the urge to retreat dispelled like the calm following a storm, replacing his start and alarm with a long suppressed, ferocious need that had harbored somewhere unknown, awaiting to be woken from its deep sleep.

Snape's lips parted slightly, allowing Hermione more access. Her Gryffindor determination seemed to be serving her well, for she reacted by daringly slipping her tongue inside his mouth. None of this had been her initial plan, but that had conveniently slipped her mind. Snape didn't withdraw from her, much to her consolation. Her tenacious move sent a jolt of arousal straight through him—one that Snape couldn't recall experiencing in years: desire for another person. A physical ache that transcended from his long, lonely existence to his most miserable present.

He was lost to the sweet swiping of her tongue along his lips, helpless to the wave of warm sensations clouding his mind, and making his body ripple with pleasure. She tasted of... _Light_, of everything that was wholesome and utterly pure left in the world. He had drunk a fraction of her light and desired more, lest he would surely drown in darkness. He needed to suck her honeyed decadence as if his wretched soul depended on her mercy.

Snape's eyes fluttered closed, enthralled by the supple, slightly moistened lips moving in fluid sync with his own, shoving and trying to out-savor the other's taste. Echoing a lust-filled groan into Hermione's mouth, she blossomed at hearing his feral growl of want, and opened herself up to him without hesitation. Snape's reaction was instantaneous. He reciprocated the act and glided his tongue into Hermione's mouth. Her surprise moan of—_was it lust?_—pushed Snape speedily to the brink. His fingers snatched her around the neck and craned her head backward to deepen the intoxicating kiss.

What had started on instinct grew to a frenzy with no halt in sight. Hermione's arms encircled Snape's neck, the rest of her upper body arching into his, acquiescing the overtaken wizard with what she so desired, and for which he could hardly believe: _him_.

Snape's opposite hand slid down the curve of Hermione's spine, his long, elegant fingers spreading across the smallness of her back, giving her an encouraging shove. She gasped into his mouth, sensing his erection through his trousers rubbing against her stomach. His own response seemed to excuse her earlier recklessness. Hermione seized him tighter around the neck, dragging him down for an even fuller kiss, with Snape offering no objection. Lips sucked and suctioned, fingers coiled and pulled at clumps of hair—limp and curly respectably—and Snape's and Hermione's bodies brushed heatedly against one another's clothing, begging for the other's garments to be ripped off and bare skin exploited.

With his lips pressed firmly against hers, the shared enthusiasm of their relentless snogging seemed to heighten to one of mania. Snape shoved himself more vigorously against the petite woman melting into his fold. His hands slid from her back to clench her round arse cheeks, and Hermione instantly hitched up her legs, locking her ankles around his trim waist, her heels digging into his lower back. Snape gathered his arms around her as he sought to catch his balance, the two continuing to snog each other's faces off, even as he maneuvered them rather ungracefully towards the couch.

Things were intensifying so fast that neither seemed aware of the gravity of what was about to transpire, only of their unified needs to be assuaged of such pent up anger, misunderstanding, and underlying desires; or they would surely both lose their minds.

Snape unceremoniously dropped Hermione onto the sofa and straddled her legs. She didn't give him the opportunity to pull away from her, though, and wrapped her hands securely around his face, sucking seductively on his bottom lip. A low whimper escaped her as Snape met her passionate intent, shoving his tongue more forcefully into her mouth. He tasted of zest, musk and masculinity, and she wished for more of his flavor; it seemed to perfectly blend with hers.

_Yes! More!_ her mind and body screamed as one.

A curtain of black hair draped around her face, tickling her cheeks and snuffing out the faint glow from the fireplace across the room. Hermione's back arched into his chest when he began tugging at her blouse, bunching it up around her neck so that his warm, large hands could search out her creamy flesh beneath.

Grunting to sit up, Hermione haphazardly threw the shirt up and over her head, allowing for her wild mane to tumble all over her head, pieces of hair hanging rather alluringly around her now flushed face. She hastily reached behind her back to unstrap her bra as well, even as Snape drew forward for another passionate snog that interrupted her attempt to push it out of the way.

After a moment, Hermione managed to undo the strap and tossed the garment aside, revealing a pair of small, perky breasts, nipples taut and erect, which Snape sought to address. Exercising nimble fingers, he circled and teasingly tugged at the hardened nubs, his purposeful efforts garnering a zealous reaction from Hermione, who gasped and dipped in response, encouraging him to repeat such ministrations to his heart's content.

_Yes_, his mind and cock reeled with ferocious want,_ make her come..._

Snape silently appraised her naked form lying goose-pimpled beneath him, his dexterous hands encasing and stroking her breasts, mindful of her aroused gasps for breath, her heaving chest, and her stomach muscles that clenched excitedly with every stroke. His eyes became heavy-lidded, inebriated with sexual appetite.

In an instant, Snape drew back to Hermione's beautifully flustered countenance. She wasn't a graceful beauty and never had been. She was naturally mussed and unglamouring, and yet, wildly attractive in a manner that the witch fully owned.

Snape's breathing strained, his eyes hungry with what Hermione could only assume was a desire for have her, and it was the most alive she had ever felt in all her short life. _Yes_, her breathy expression mirrored up at him, _have me! Have all of me!_

Before this moment, Hermione Granger had been a walking corpse for what felt like years, winding along a narrow path that didn't allow her to pick and choose her own way. Tonight, though,—here and now and on this springy couch in Severus Snape's dreary living room—Hermione burned with purpose, with feeling, every nerve-ending pulsating and extracting new life into her expanding lungs. The growing heat between her legs throbbed, yearning for the wizard to fill her and assuage her of all repressed need.

As Snape hovered over Hermione's naked form, his lean, warm body wedged between her legs, and with his hands encasing and continuing to massage her breasts, Hermione echoed an ache-filled moan into the darkness—a call that spoke her permission aloud to him: he should take her. Now.

Snape's hands skimmed the fragility of her neckline to caress her face, those once-sinister eyes boring earnestly into hers, with inclination rather than what she had long assumed was hatred. Hermione didn't want to give either of them time to assess the danger of the situation. She wanted those delectable, fine lips to kiss her everywhere, to lick and suck on her smooth flesh and make it warm again, for those overworked fingers to leave her boneless and satisfied.

Hermione stretched her neck upward for another kiss, grateful when Snape didn't flinch or rear back but, instead, brought his mouth down willingly to meet hers. The hysteria intensified all over again. Snape's physical touch mapped its way earnestly up and down Hermione's exposed skin, whilst her eager hands yanked and tugged at his greasy hair and then at the concealed contortions of strong back muscles.

With little effort, Hermione found her jeans being hustled off, both by her yanking and with Snape's earnest aid. Curious fingers linked around a trail of buttons, hell-bent on ripping them off if necessary to get to the prize that awaited her underneath, but Hermione's investigation went unfulfilled, for Snape apparently had other ideas in mind. His hands snatched hers and dragged them away from his chest, much to her befuddlement. She balked, not understanding why he would choose to remain dressed.

Snape made no reply, however, and when Hermione opened her mouth to protest his efforts, a bony finger came up to silence her. "No," he purred determinedly; his voice was quiet but adamant on this score, for whatever reasons that were unbeknownst to Hermione. "Turn around."

_That_ surprised her. She resisted, staring up and searching out his face for an explanation. With such firm resistance outlining Snape's eyes and mouth, however, Hermione consented, desperate for the wizard's touch to resume. She also understood better than to challenge him, even if it confounded the hell out of her. With Snape merely straddling her legs but no longer engaging in pleasing her whatsoever, Hermione did as she was told, giving him an apprehensive frown. She shifted awkwardly onto her stomach—uncertain and waiting—and heard Snape shuffle about behind her. She started to turn her head, when Snape's hand came down hard around the back of her curly head, forcing her to keep her face smothered into the sofa cushion.

"_No_," he repeated in a surprisingly clipped tone. "Do not look at me. You don't want to see."

The strong hand on the back of her head eased once he was certain Hermione wasn't going to defy him a second time. Those dexterous fingers the witch had been longing for slithered gently down the curve of her neck, along the soft definition of her shoulder blades to the delicate definition of her spine, his touch considerate, yet teasing.

Hermione shuddered with anticipation and bent her knees as Snape tugged at the band of her knickers and began to pull them down her trembling legs.

A cool breeze whisked across her back, and the notion of being stark naked and exposed to Severus Snape hit Hermione like a hex. Once her knickers were removed, she was entirely nude, yet he was not, and_ that_ was unappealing in the extreme—at least, to one of them.

Hermione didn't move; in fact, she couldn't, even had she wanted to. Her heart was beating out of her chest. She could hear Snape breathing nosily behind her and sensed those dark, ambiguous irises boring into the back of her skull; or, rather, her wet entrance.

Tantalizing fingers stretched themselves across her behind, encasing her arse before brushing down along her weeping folds, stroking them intently from back to front. Hermione moaned into the sofa and eased herself backward against his hands, startled when she felt the mushroom tip of his erection against her entrance, for it was no longer confined to his pants. She hadn't so much as detected Snape unbuttoning his trousers, but his engorged shaft and tightened balls now hung freely at her backside, sliding against the slickness of her cleft.

Hermione faintly heard him make a noise—a deep, husky growl that was both primal and something other worldly—and shivered, hitching a breath. He traced her moistened folds and thumbed at her clit, drawing several sharp breaths from a now quivering Hermione, who leaned back ever more, unable to stop herself each time Snape's calloused thumb gently traced the overly sensitive nub. Two digits soon replaced the empty feeling inside of her, much to her enormous relief, and Hermione's walls clenched around Snape's fingers, hardly mindful anymore that she was actually being fondled by her former Potions professor, the Death Eater, the assassin who had supposedly murdered Albus Dumbledore in cold blood.

All Hermione could think about was being fucked, and fucked beyond reason.

_Have me! HAVE ME!_ her pulsating form called to the wizard stationed behind her.

Snape glided his fingers steadily in and around her wet canal as though he were already well attuned to the spots that affected her most, igniting Hermione from the inside out. She bowed and moaned and gasped for air, her whimpers and half muffled noises baiting and enticing. Her fingers grasped the sofa, in desperate need of something solid to hold on to.

Just before she was about to come, Snape suddenly withdrew from inside her, and Hermione's head bobbed sideways in shock, her breathing coming in uncontrolled fits. "What are you—" she started to whine, but his freshly sticky fingers, now covered in her remnants, clamped around the witch's pouting mouth, the smell of her scent filling her own nostrils.

"Never you mind," came his rough reply; he sounded amused.

Snape's hand moved away from her face to grab onto her hips, hoisting her clenched arse into a more upright position, with her knees still bent somewhat awkwardly on the couch. Hermione felt the tip of Snape's cock brush her cleft a few times and squirmed in anticipation, the sudden urge to shove herself back against him mounting with every slight, torturous sweep.

Snape's timing couldn't have been more perfect. Sensing her angst reaching a dire level, he grasped his swelling shaft in hand and glided his tip up and down her entrance, watching Hermione's juices exude with each hypersensitive stroke. "Yes," he rasped through his teeth, speaking more to himself than to Hermione, who was now withering under his teasing advances, "you're ready for me."

Hermione's hands clutched a pillow in front of her and she gulped in a shaky breath as Snape proceeded to stretch her walls, guiding himself into her body, using her hips for purchase. He brought her buttocks to meet his tightened balls and let go of the vocal restraints that had been holding him back until now.

"_Fuck!_" Snape cursed at the remarkable warmth that embraced his cock. He felt Hermione clench in response, and that nearly drove him over the edge.

Deeply snug inside Hermione's walls, Snape could barely focus on the fact that she was too tight for him. She felt moist and flexed and absolutely perfect.

_Have her. Yes... Have her!_

Once he managed to catch his breath, it dawned on the entranced wizard that Hermione hadn't been able to fight off coming as soon as he had started to slowly move inside of her. The throbbing ache his fingers had replaced seemed to be too much for the witch to handle, for she clamped down around his cock and came hard with a vengeance, muffling her screams into the pillow as she gave herself over to utter bliss. It was nearly enough to make Snape come, too, and he chewed the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from climaxing too soon.

Snape draped himself over top of Hermione, allowing her quivers to subside before slowly grinding his hips, and snaked an arm around her waist to hold her still. Then he began thrusting through the remainder of her orgasm, and Hermione sucked in a sharp intake of air and moved in synch with him. It was somewhat painful at first,—the position was new and the last time Hermione had had sex was with Ron, well over a year ago—and yet, her cravings were so much stronger than she could ever recall, and growing in their mind-blowing intensity.

Snape's long hair swept across Hermione's shoulders, his hot breaths puffing on her neck as he pounded harder into her, his moves no longer gentle but urgent, matching Hermione's cries of ecstasy. It wasn't long before she was echoing Snape's colourful vocabulary and drawing backward to meet every desperate plunge. This angle, as uncharted territory, overwhelmed her senses; she could only compound the incredible surges taking over every nerve-ending by dipping backwards to meet Snape's driving thrusts, each one leaving the pair of them breathless and in need of oxygen.

Their exchange wasn't the act of gentle lovemaking but frantic and rough copulation, with no other thought in mind from Snape except evidently making the witch drooped around his arm bend to his will, to have her come over and over again, to hear her blissful cries of rapture. He could sense her about to implode again; her walls were trembling around his painful prick.

"Come," he demanded through a series of throaty growls; Hermione shook as his words poured into her ear like honey. "Come for me."

"Oh, gods... _Ohhh..._ OH, GODS!" she exclaimed before her head collapsed against her arms, her face burrowing into the sofa once more as an unbelievable orgasm raked through her without warning.

Snape kept thrusting into her hard, one wiry, yet immensely strong, arm ensnared around her trembling nakedness, determined to bring Hermione over the edge yet again, along with himself this time. His heart pounded furiously against his surging chest, his breathing ragged and earnest as his face became entangled in a mound of her frizzed curls.

Snape's hips ground viciously into a now limp Hermione. Her knees were beginning to buckle from holding herself upright for so long, and even with Snape gripping her firmly in place, her legs had turned to jelly, ready to give out and sink into the sofa cushions. She was so breathless that she was sure her chest would explode soon from such fervent ministrations, but Snape simply kept up the furious pace, the fingers wrapped around her stomach digging further and further into her skin, as if hell bent on leaving visible proof of their claim over her person. His opposite hand snatched the same pillow that her sweaty palms clung to, and Hermione wrenched it tighter and tighter as she felt herself coming to the brink of another climax.

"I... _Oh, gods!_ I... _OHHH!_"

Unable to grasp at words, Hermione broke apart into a final culmination that surpassed its predecessors. The wizard behind her, on the verge of his own release, and with the intensity of Hermione's own climax, could hold out no longer. The feel of her heated walls shaking uncontrollably around his throbbing cock couldn't be overcome. With one final thrust deep inside her, Snape came ferociously, repressing the fevered cry of his own release into Hermione's shoulder. His cock twitched and then his hips slowed to a standstill, his perspiring face burrowed snug within the witch's tousled curls, and hers into the sofa cushions beneath her.

Sex and sweat penetrated the air, neither able to will themselves to move away from one each other—not at first. It was another moment or two before oxygen seemed to finally refill their lungs, and only then did Snape shift to pull himself out of Hermione, his fingers lightly grazing her spine as his warm body drifted away from over top of hers.

Hermione collapsed onto her side, utterly spent and unable to change positions. She detested no longer being filled by the not-so-handsome, hooked-nosed figure who had wandered away from her, leaving her suddenly hollow and empty with his departure.

Snape peered down at her fetal-prone form before gathering himself together. The only manner by which to ascertain that the boneless heap of a witch laying perfectly still on his sofa hadn't, in fact, expired was the steady expansion and contraction of her ribs. Hermione's eyes, meanwhile, remained closed, cutting him off from her emotions. She never noticed Snape re-buttoning his trousers. Only once she had a regular heart rate again did she lazily turn her head, swiping damp curls out of her eyes to pry open her heavy eyelids, drinking in the scene before her. She was covered in sweat and, from what she could make out of Snape, standing a short distance away—his hands fidgeting rather gracefully with the buttons at his wrists—his forehead, too, was dripping with perspiration that stuck to his too-white skin. His hair was shinier as well from being highlighted against the harsh glow of the fireplace at his back.

Hermione wasn't really thinking about openly studying Snape's movements. Her thoughts had been consumed, rather, by the muddling factor that she and Severus Snape had just shagged on the couch that she was currently splayed over and entirely nude upon. Not only had they engaged in sex, but Hermione had enjoyed every spectacular bloody second of it. Why was she not more terrified, or at least unnerved by the highly dangerous act that they had both just succumbed to? Sure, she was exceptionally loose and relaxed—more unwound than she had possibly ever felt in her whole damn life—but even _her_ mind wasn't so far gone—yet—to consider the horrifying consequences of what they had just done.

What troubled her more, however, even if she knew that it shouldn't, was the manner in which Snape was acting now that the act was over. Hermione would have been more than content to continue lying draped over the man's couch, preferably with him pressed up behind her—to listen to one another's heartbeats as they drifted off into a body-humming sleep together.

Instead, Hermione found herself lying on the couch alone, with Snape on the opposite end of the sitting room and as far away from her as he could get without actually leaving the confined space. She no longer felt warm and enthralled but chilled to the bone. Hermione's weary mind came to a screeching halt in its analysis of the past half hour: what should have been something most intimate and tender suddenly felt nothing of the sort, particularly with Snape so obviously avoiding eye contact; or perhaps he had simply concluded that she had fallen asleep?

_No..._

Hermione wasn't an idiot, but a humiliated burn effused her cheeks the longer she stared across the room at him, receiving no acknowledgement in return as he buttoned himself up appropriately. _As if nothing had happened._ Hermione wasn't foolish enough to harbor any ridiculous notions akin to affection—she had enjoyed their escapade for what it was, if the gentle thrumming her body echoed was anything to go by—but not being able to at least look Snape in the eyes as he screwed her into the couch was...disconcerting, and left Hermione sickened.

The longer she lay there naked, with her expressive, brown eyes searching Snape's hard features for any sign of acknowledgement, the more she began to feel like a filthy rag that had been rung out to dry. Snape was fidgeting with his garments obsessively rather than addressing her, and it wasn't at all comforting.

_Not in the least._

Hermione was brought back to their present predicament when her eyes, at last, met solid black. Instead of the smoldering intensity that had lit her on fire before, they were now as listless as stone. The dark figure standing before the fireplace, who had shagged her to the point that she couldn't remember her own name, was now an entirely different sort against the harsh light of night. Snape's eyes were slightly scrunched, and, although Hermione found the set of wrinkles at the edges of his eyelids quite attractive, the expression he wore wasn't so enticing.

Timidly, Hermione raised her head, the reality dawning on her that she was still as nude as a baby, whilst Snape was properly dressed, and that only added to her flush of embarrassment. She shifted onto her buttocks to sit upright and hurriedly scooped her pile of clothing up from the floor, including her tangled knickers. Every inch of Hermione was sore and exhausted, and she could feel the weight of Snape's stare following her around the room as she staggered to throw on her clothes as quickly as possible, avoiding eye contact all the while just as he had done.

Once she had herself in order, rumpled and unkempt as she was, Hermione wearily peered over at Snape from her perch on his couch, her hands wrung together apprehensively in her lap. She was fighting the relaxation that had washed over her following several incredible orgasms, and found the act of just keeping her eyes open a strain, despite the atmosphere having returned to its rigid and awkward state.

Snape quietly cleared his throat and nodded at the tea assortment still on the coffee table. Somehow, they had managed not to send it all toppling to the floor during their ungraceful romp.

"You may take your tea upstairs if you'd like." There was a strange tension in his voice, but that was all Hermione could detect. "Otherwise, I will see you in the morning."

Hermione blinked curiously up at him, eyed the tea that had undoubtedly gone cold by now, and chose to rise from the sofa, though every limb in her body screamed in protest. She re-clasped an open button at the neckline of her wrinkled blouse and pushed the sore emotions rising from the pit of her stomach back down where they belonged, fixing Snape with a sour gaze.

"No, I don't think I want any tea tonight. I'll just go to bed. Good night...Sir."

One of Snape's eyelids twitched. "Good night, Granger," he returned, his stiff dismissal inflicting more damage on Hermione's emotions than she could bring herself to admit.

Hermione left the room without a second glance and climbed the stairs to her quarters, a number of thoughts struggling to make right of the situation. She was too exhausted to push them all to the forefront of her mind, however, and once she reached the quietude of her bedroom, she easily gave up.

Letting out a sleep-inducing sigh, Hermione collapsed onto her bed and didn't bother to change out of her crumpled clothing. Within seconds, she was fast asleep and snoring into her pillow, her body continuing to thrum contentedly from that evening's erotic act, though the night had ended on a much more chilling note.

_Tomorrow_, had been her last thought before she succumbed to sleep. _You can address the incident—this bloody disaster—tomorrow._


End file.
